Sweet as Cherry Wine
by blackgirlfairy
Summary: AU. Vices are a dime a dozen, and both Rick and Michonne have their fair share of them. That's exactly what makes the twice weekly Alcoholics Anonymous meetings they attend so important. Neither of them is looking to fall in love, but attraction is attraction, and it won't be stopped. No matter how much they try to resist it.
1. One

_**A/N: I've had this story on my mind for a while. I'm incredibly happy I finally got the courage to explore it with the characters I love so much and share it with you guys at the same time. Without boring you guys further I'll just share that the title comes from the song Cherry Wine by Hozier. While the entire song doesn't necessarily fit the premise of the story, I felt that this line made for a fitting title.**_

 _ **I'm really looking forward to hearing what you guys think. Hope you enjoy!** _

* * *

_**One**_

For all intents and purposes, Madison, Georgia was a non-entity. Just about 15 miles outside of King County, Georgia and near the halfway point from the small town to Atlanta, it housed less than 5 thousand people altogether. And with no major attractions to speak of, its only real redeeming qualities were the lush, looming green trees and beautiful grandiose homes lining just about every major street. But even those were tainted by the darkness of their Antebellum history, making them difficult to truly admire. The one thing Madison did have though, was a church.

Just like the town it was located in, First Baptist Church of Madison was rather unassuming. One of four different churches in the town, it was a newer build, with a brick exterior, a grimy white roof, and a giant golden cross overlooking the building. It looked nothing like the mega church Michonne Clement attended with her family growing up in Atlanta. But in its unfamiliarity, it provided something she desperately needed. Twice weekly Alcoholics Anonymous meetings in a place where no one would recognize her.

The basement of First Baptist was only halfway finished. With its white painted concrete walls and carpeted floor, the groaning of the radiator could clearly be heard. But none of the twenty or so attendees sitting uncomfortably in vinyl padded folding chairs seemed to care. Michonne sat somewhere in the back, not far enough to look suspicious, but not close enough to draw attention. The only black woman in the room, she already stood out, but her perfectly done up face, flowing locs, pink and black striped blouse, and white pleated shorts made her feel like a spectacle. She'd made the drive to Madison straight from a work meeting with her nerves shot to hell. But the curious stares she recieved had her regretting not bringing a change of clothes in her car.

She took a peek at the white gold watch on her thin wrist, 6:50 p.m. Ten full minutes before the meeting was set to start. Her ankle shook as she tried to calm herself down. It wasn't her first AA meeting, not by a long shot. But no matter how many church basements she'd parked her ass in, no matter how many tearful testimonies she'd given and sat through, Michonne could never shake the bad feelings. The ones that felt like failure, and loneliness, and that dreadful, all consuming yearning that could only be sated by the sting of alcohol. Michonne swallowed harshly, her ankle twitching even faster. Her craving flooded through her, almost strong enough to make her eyes water. The shame followed just as fast, equal parts startling and grounding. As painful as it was, that shame reminded her of where she was - why she was.

A throat cleared at the front of the room, drawing her attention to the older white man who stood at the podium with a small, comforting smile on his face. "It's about that time," he said, shuffling some papers in his hands. "What do you guys say we get started?"

The group let out a few non-distinct murmurs of agreement. "Great, so, every week before we begin our meetings, I like to let any new members introduce themselves."

Michonne shifted in her seat and swallowed harshly. She wasn't sure how many other people in the room were newcomers at First Baptist like her, but no one spoke up. The man at the front let out a deep chuckle, his white mustache twitching as his blue eyes sparkled. "All right, I guess I'll start. My name is Hershel Greene and I'm an alcoholic."

"Hi, Hershel," the group murmured out the standard greeting.

He continued. "I've been clean for ten years, been attending meetings just like this for even longer. In a past life, I was a veterinarian, now I work with First Baptist to help those dealing with substance abuse. I know that's one hell of a career change, but trust me, these meetings pale in comparison to stickin' your arm up a cow's ass."

Michonne couldn't help but laugh along with everyone else. Just like that, Hershel had succeeded in making the room less tense. "Now," he continued. "Can I get the hands of any first timers."

She rose her hand only slightly, the way you do when you're only volunteering for something to assuage yourself of the guilt of not wanting to. She kept her eyes forward, not daring to look anywhere but the podium at the front of the room next to where Hershel stood.

"Good, good," Hershel spoke. "Anyone want to stand up and speak? How about you?"

The room was quiet for a minute, no one said anything. Then, Michonne heard one of the folding chairs creak a bit and the soft rustling of clothes. "Yeah uh- I'm Rick and I'm an alcoholic."

His voice was thick and accented, like many others she'd heard in the room. His deep baritone was just as gruff as it was oddly captivating. So much so that her eyes couldn't help but follow the sound of it.

"Hi, Rick," she spoke with the rest of the group, that thickness in her throat back again. He was gorgeous, even just his profile. His defined jaw was covered in a salt and pepper stubble and even from across the room she could make out the uncomfortable clench of it. He wore a simple jeans and t-shirt, but they fit him perfectly, molding a bit to his thighs, chest, and shoulders. His head was a dark swath of curls, thick and silky on the top of his head. He was incredibly handsome, fine as hell really. Just the sight of him made her blood rush and her heart beat a little faster. Which was exactly why she had to look away. An Alcoholics Anonymous meeting was just about the last place on earth foster a healthy, budding attraction with someone. Alcoholics were notoriously difficult lovers. Her ex could attest to that first hand.

When Rick spoke again, Michonne had to force herself not to turn her head and stare at him. "I've been sober for about six months," he said. "This definitely ain't my first time around, but I've been hopin' and prayin' that it'll be my last."

He kept it short and succinct before she heard his chair creak as he sat down again. She was a little disappointed that he didn't say anything else. The entire first half of the meeting continued similarly. With other members of the group standing and speaking. Some of them simply stated their names and the numbers on their sobriety coins. Others got a little more emotional, speaking on lost relationships and hopelessness. There were others, just a few, who were incredibly hopeful, though. Those shook Michonne the most. She could handle the sob stories, she'd been living in her own for years. The pain was almost comforting even. But the feeling of hope was so foreign she could hardly remember what the word meant.

During the last thirty minutes, Hershel made his way back to the podium and spoke at length about the first in the 12-step program. _Admitting one's powerlessness over alcohol_ was something she'd already done. Hell, it was what had drawn her to attend her very first AA meeting nearly ten months ago. Still, that didn't make Hershel's words about how powerlessness often lead to great things any less poignant. By the end of the meeting, Michonne felt a little lighter. The weight on her chest wasn't gone completely, not even close. But she was in a good enough mood to stick around for the refreshments afterward instead of bolting to her car like she'd originally planned.

The makeshift craft table held a couple pots of lukewarm coffee, a pitcher of juice, and multiple rows of store bought hard cookies. Michonne stood quietly to the side of the table, nursing a couple Oreos and holding a drink as she observed the rest of the group chat amongst themselves. A feeling akin to jealousy bubbled up in her chest as she watched the easy camaraderie. She tried her hardest to push it down.

"Hey there."

Michonne briefly closed her eyes and cursed as she was approached by the handsome man from earlier in the meeting. Rick, she remembered.

"Hi," she said shortly, hoping her standoffish reply would get him to walk away.

"I just...uh...I saw you standin' over here by yourself and I figured I'd introduce myself," he continued. "I'm Rick Grimes."

She locked eyes with him, her breath catching at the severity of his intense gaze. Michonne felt like she had been laid bare, all of her worst secrets revealed to him in a matter of seconds. She wondered if he looked at everyone like that.

"Michonne Clement," she said, crossing her arms over her chest but refusing to look away from him.

"It's nice to meet you, Michonne." The way he said her name made her shiver involuntarily. His accent made the word come out slow and thoughtfully. It was almost unbearably sexy.

"You too, Rick," Michonne steeled herself to walk away, but he continued.

"So, you live around here?"

"No," she surprised herself by continuing with her answer. "I live in Atlanta actually. What about you?"

"Nah, I ain't from around here either. Close by though. You ever heard of King County?"

"Can't say I have. Why don't you attend meetings there?" Michonne wasn't surprised at her curiosity, but she was definitely shocked that she'd taken the initiative to actively continue conversing with Rick.

Those blue eyes narrowed just the tiniest bit and the polite smirk on his face deepened into something a little harder. "I could ask you the same thang."

Michonne forced out a chuckle. "I don't know about you, Rick Grimes, but I quite enjoy driving an hour out of my way twice a week just to avoid the possibility of being outed as an alcoholic by some petty socialite in the city."

"Yeah, I get it," Rick said, his smile widening. "Just like I prefer my AA meetings not to end in a sermon about sinners burnin' up in hellfire by some backwoods zealot preacher."

Rick and Michonne stared at each other in amusement before they both dissolved in a bout of quiet giggles. To normal people, the jokes were definitely a bit morbid, but they helped make the awkward position they were in a little bit lighter. They also succeeded in helping Michonne loosen up even more.

"It was brave of you, you know," she said uncrossing her arms. "To stand up during the meeting."

Rick looked pleased with her compliment. "You think so?"

She nodded. "I haven't quite gotten there yet."

"I think it takes a lot of bravery just to show up," he continued. "Just walkin' in them doors ain't easy."

Michonne's face heated up at his words. She hadn't known she'd been so hungry for the light validation he offered. It was just as sad as it was thrilling and she had no idea how to feel about it.

Rick seemed to sense that she didn't have a response to his comments. "So what do you do, Michonne?"

She started to answer but was cut off by him.

"Wait no, let me guess." Those beautiful eyes narrowed once again as he looked her up and down. As his gaze roamed up her bare legs, taking the time to rest on her slightly thickened thighs before it met her own again. On anyone else, Michonne may have found the attention annoying or offensive, but Rick only succeeded in turning her on.

"I'm lookin' at your fancy shoes and your nice clothes so I'm guessin' you're kind of a big deal."

Michonne just smirked.

"My first guess would be politician," Rick continued. "But for some reason, I can't picture you as someone who loves to hear herself talk."

He let out a low humming noise and tapped his long, thick index finger on his pink bottom lip playfully. "You a lawyer?"

She shook her head in the negative.

"Damn," Rick cursed. "What about some sort of college professor?"

Michonne chuckled, "You're way, way off, Grimes."

He snapped his fingers and waited for her to continue. When she didn't, the playful smile on his face grew. "Don't leave me hangin', Sugar."

Michonne's heart beat faster, so much so that she had to delicately press a hand to her chest in an attempt to calm it. "I'm a pastry chef," she said somewhat shakily. "I actually own a bakery."

Rick's eyebrows rose. "No shit?"

"No shit."

"Well damn, you're right. I never would have guessed that."

"Why not?" Michonne surprised herself by asking the question. "I don't seem sweet enough?"

"Nah, it ain't that. You seem plenty sweet. I just got the image of you in one of them sexy pants suits in my head and couldn't let it go."

The tension between them turned thicker in an instant. Much thicker than Michonne intended it to be. She'd moved from wanting to avoid the man altogether to a little harmless flirting to something a lot more suggestive in a matter of minutes. As much as his words made her soak her panties and lick her lips, she had no intention of seeing the conversation down that road. No matter how much she wanted to drag him back to her car and fuck him in the backseat.

Rick seemed a little taken aback when she refused to acknowledge his flirting. "And what about you, Rick? What do you do?"

He looked down at his feet briefly, a wry grin on his face. "You don't have any theories?"

"I'm not really good at guessing games."

"I'm a business owner too," Rick cleared his throat. "I run a distillery actually."

Michonne looked at him, a blank look on her beautiful face.

"A distillery?"

"Yep."

"You're an alcoholic who owns a distillery?"

He laughed outright this time. His head bent over from the force of the sounds leaving his lips. Michonne couldn't do anything but stare. "The irony ain't lost, trust me."

"How the hell do you do it?" She asked, unable to hold back her curiosity. She made a point to mostly eliminate the presence of any alcohol in her life. Going so far as to skip out on dinners with friends and avoiding the liquor aisle in the supermarket like it was the plague. Even still she had to use all of her strength to stay on the wagon. And Rick just casually worked around alcohol every damn day and still managed to stay sober? She didn't know whether to be appalled or impressed.

"It hasn't gone very well for me in the past," Rick admitted. "Which is why I've taken a bit of a sabbatical. I'm stuck doing administrative work in my dining room instead of getting my hands dirty."

She didn't know why, but knowing that he wasn't testing himself so much every day made her sigh in relief. "That...makes sense, I guess."

"Yeah," was all he said, making the air between them thick for another reason entirely.

Michonne looked down at her watch, balking a bit at the time. "Well, it was nice speaking with you, Rick but I really need to get going if I'm going to make it back at a reasonable hour."

The man in front of her nodded. "Right, sure. Me too."

"I guess I'll see you next time then."

She dropped her empty cup in the small trash can next to them and exchanged a small parting smile with Rick. She only made it a step before his big, warm land came to rest on her upper arm to stop her. Even through her thin blouse, the feeling caused gooseflesh to rise up on her skin.

She looked at him questioningly.

"What's the name of your bakery?" He asked. "Just in case I feel like stoppin' by sometime."

Michonne paused, unsure of whether or not to give it out. It seemed like a stupid decision to allow some man from an AA meeting into even a fraction of her real life, but she couldn't seem to help herself.

" _Clementine Cake Shop_ ," she said quietly before walking away.

Her ride back home seemed to go by at a grueling pace. The longer the highway between Madison and Atlanta stretched, the harder it got for Michonne to keep her mind off of Rick Grimes. It had been months since she'd had a conversation as compelling as the one they had in the church basement over half stale Oreos and too sweet juice. He was funny, and smart, and way too compelling for his own good. She was undeniably drawn to him, but the last thing she needed was to be drawn to was a man. She was in the midst of a great change. The lifestyle she'd known for years had only come crumbling down months ago. And with it, came a swath of traumas and emotions that she'd been blissfully numbing and avoiding. Between the AA meetings, therapy sessions, and throwing herself into her work full-force, she didn't have the time to entertain schoolgirl crushes on men.

Michonne had no room in her life for Rick Grimes with his stupidly charming smile, his thick Georgia accent, and his twinkling eyes. She had no interest in letting him into any part of her life - in allowing the possibility of hurting or being hurt by him. She was a grown ass woman - 35-years-old for God's sake - she'd had years of experience in forgetting about men. Rick Grimes wouldn't be any different.

Steeling her resolve and gritting her teeth in an action of pure stubbornness, Michonne parked her car in the driveway of her townhouse and made her way inside. Just like every other time she made her way through the door, she was hit with a wave of pure loneliness almost instantly. The weight of it was almost unbearable. She navigated through the dark home on muscle memory, making her way upstairs and shedding her clothes on the floor. She picked up the lone framed photo of Andre - her baby boy - from her bedside table and kissed it once, then again, and one last time before sitting it down again. Blinds drawn, covers tucked, and bed cold, Michonne fell into a fitful sleep. Just the same as every other night.


	2. Two

_**Woah...Seriously guys, woah. The overwhelmingly positive response I received from you guys makes me happier than you could ever know. I'm so glad you guys loved the start of this story and I can only hope you'll continue to love it as I take these characters on their journey.**_

 _ **I really do want to thank each and every one of you individually, but I don't want to distract from the story too much. So, if you want to chat, speculate, etc. feel free to look me up on tumblr (at blackgirlfairy). For now, I'll leave you with the second chapter - Rick's chapter.**_

 _ **I'm seriously looking forward to hearing your thoughts on the chapter! Enjoy!**_

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 _ **Two**_

 _Cause your pain is a tribute_

 _The only thing you let hold you_

 _Wear it now like a mantle_

 _Always there to remind you_

 _\- Third Eye - Florence + The Machine_

* * *

"Tomorrow isn't going to work for me, Rick."

Rick clenched his jaw and rubbed a hand over his forehead in frustration. "What the hell do you mean tomorrow ain't gonna work for you, Lori?" He tried his hardest to keep his temper under control. "I've had these plans with Carl for weeks. He hasn't been able to stop talkin' my ear off about seeing the _Atlanta Braves_ in person for the first time."

Lori sighed. "I know, I know. I'm just not so sure about you taking him so far away for such a long time."

Her implications made Rick shove up from his seat at his dining room table. When he spoke again, his tone was brittle. "I've never once put my son in danger and you know that," he fumed. "Don't pull that bullshit with me."

Rick felt like sending his fist through the nearest wall. Lori knew that he'd never do anything to hurt Carl. He wasn't the perfect father, not by a long shot, not even before his addiction had taken hold of him so tightly. But even in his worst, most desperate, rock-bottom days he'd never posed a danger to his boy. He'd never gone on a bender with him in the house or driven drunk at any time, let alone with Carl in the car. Rick had tried his hardest to keep his son away from his toxicity and completely unaware of what his father was going through. His ex-wife's suggestion that Carl would come to harm by being around him, especially when he was sober, made him angrier than he'd been in a long time.

The woman on the other end let out another displeased noise. "I know you won't put him in danger, Rick. It ain't about that-"

He cut her off. "What the hell is it about then? The only reason we're havin' this damn conversation is because I agreed to give you full custody until I got my shit together. And now that I've finally done that you're trying to keep me from my boy?"

It had been two years since he and Lori officially divorced, the ink drying on the papers just a few months after he'd tried and failed to stay sober for the third time. Rick had been in a freefall, falling further and further down the hole and desperately unable to crawl out. He and Lori hadn't gone to family court to draw up an official custody agreement. Rick doubted he would have been able to properly argue that he deserved to be in Carl's life at all at the time anyway. Instead, they'd agree that Lori would have full custodial rights until Rick sorted himself out. Honestly, neither of them had been confident that he ever would. Since then, his time with his son had been relegated to nightly phone calls, after school pickups, Sunday afternoon lunches, and the occasional two-hour trip to the park or the movies.

Carl was growing up so fast. At 11-years-old, he seemed to be learning more and more each day. And the fact that Rick wasn't there to witness him in action each and every day was crippling. He had no interest in blaming Lori for his own mistakes. He understood her position - she wanted to protect Carl. Hell, he wanted that too. But he needed her to work with him. Many days, the thought of renewing his relationship with his son was the only thing that kept him from falling off the wagon.

When his cravings for the bottle got so bad that his hands shook. When the mere thought of existing without another drop of liquor made his head spin. When the shame and embarrassment tasted like cheap whiskey as they welled up in his throat. The thought of Carl being proud to call him 'dad' again was the only thing that eased his mind. Rick wanted to be a father again, and at some point, Lori would have to let him.

"Nobody's trying to keep you from anything, Rick," she snapped. "I'm just trying to keep Carl safe. I know you've been sober six months, and you say you're doin' good, gettin' your shit together but Minnie Jackson said she saw you comin' out of Morgan's place the other afternoon. And if you're goin' to bars in the middle of the day…" She paused, her voice adopting that pitying, faux-sympathy tone he hated. "Addiction don't end overnight, Rick. It's okay if you're still strugglin', but I can't let Carl be around that. I just can't."

"I'm not-" he started, then paused. He _was_ still struggling, every single day. But he hadn't relapsed, and he didn't plan to. "Lori, I was at Morgan's to talk about him renewing his distribution contract with the distillery. I was sellin' whiskey, not drinkin' it. And if you stopped listenin' to them goddamn gossipin' hens around town and actually talked to me, you could'a known that already."

He didn't bring up the fact that it had taken all of his strength to set foot into that bar. That once he was inside, watching the patrons nurse their drinks, just as he had not six months ago, his strength had nearly waned. One foot in front of the other, he had to practically beg his old friend to conduct their meeting in his back office. The entire contract negotiation took less than 20 minutes, but the half drunk bottle of Kentucky bourbon on Morgan's desk made it feel like a lifetime. His eyes couldn't help but stray towards it every few seconds. Dark and full, he could almost taste the damn stuff. Just looking at it made his stomach churn in hunger. There must have been some look in his eyes, something sad and desperate that made Morgan take notice. Because one second the bottle stood there, tempting him, and the next it was locked inside his friend's desk drawer. Out of sight, but not out of mind. Rick had no interest in telling Lori that, though.

Lori was quiet for a moment, even in her silence he could tell that she felt embarrassed for assuming the worst of him. "Well, I'm sorry," she said. "But I still think we should be taking things slowly. Maybe Carl can start having dinner at your place a couple times during the week, then we can move up to overnight trips."

It was a reasonable request, he knew it. And as much as he wanted to scream and argue and plead for her to let him make Carl happy with those _Braves_ tickets, Rick knew that this agreement was more than fair. "Alright," he conceded. "Yeah, that sounds good. How about Tuesdays and Thursdays to start. I'll pick him up from school, make sure he gets his homework together, then bring him on home after dinner."

"That sounds good," Lori replied. "We'll start next week?"

"Yeah," Rick said softly. "Can I talk to him now, I want to be the one to break the news."

"Oh, Rick," that tone was back again, making Rick grind his teeth together. "He's outside playin' with one of his friends. But don't worry, I already told him something came up at work. Said you'd take him another time."

Rick had to blink back tears when he thought of how disappointed Carl must have been, of how fucking low he'd fallen as a father. So low that he couldn't even keep his promise to take his boy to a damn baseball game. When he spoke again, his voice was little more than a croak. "Alright, but tell him to call me before he goes to sleep."

He and Lori hung up after a couple of stilted pleasantries and goodbyes. Sitting back down in his chair, Rick looked at the two tickets lying on the table in front of him. They were good seats, right on the diamond infield and perfectly situated behind first base at _SunTrust Park_. Briefly, he wondered if he should give them away. While they hadn't necessarily been cheap, he wasn't going through the process of selling them to someone else. Luckily, the prospect of losing the cash he'd spent on them didn't faze him - money may have been the only thing he didn't have to worry much about. But as he ticked through the boxes of friends he could gift him to, his mind wandered to the woman he'd met at the AA meeting in Madison the night before.

Michonne, he thought, Michonne Clement. Even in his memories, she was arresting. The woman was so beautiful she almost made him lose his breath. All smooth dark skin, big pretty eyes, and svelte curves he ached to run his hands and mouth over. He honestly wasn't sure what made him approach her at the meeting. One minute he was minding his business, small talking with Hershel, and the next he was striding over to her with a confidence he thought he'd lost. She'd been short with him at first but thawed under his steady gaze soon enough. Their conversation had been short, but Michonne had captivated him the entire time. She was sharp, and witty, and funny and Rick had been sorely disappointed when she'd announced her leave.

As dangerous as it was to admit, he looked forward to seeing her again. He hoped like hell she planned on attending Monday night's meeting in Madison. His eyes strayed back to the two tickets sitting in front of him. Then, all of a sudden, he got a craving of a different kind. One for something sweet, something like a cupcake or a freshly baked cookie.

King County didn't have any noteworthy bakeries. Just the small cake counter in their local grocery store. Atlanta had plenty though. And one, in particular, he was especially curious about. _Clementine Cake Shop._ Even just the name sounded delicious, much like the woman who owned it.

Pushing back the thoughts of how ridiculous his actions were, Rick grabbed his keys, wallet, and the _Braves_ tickets then made his way out to his truck. Even with the GPS leading the way, the drive to Atlanta flew by in a haze. One minute he was on a well-traveled stretch of Georgia highway and the next he was parked in front of a pretty little bakery in Midtown Atlanta.

Even from the outside, it was a lot nicer than he expected. Located on a busy street in a row of other hip businesses the exterior was white with a large window in front. The name of the bakery, the address, and phone number were displayed in gold script on the glass. Instead of displaying the goods inside, a long white bar stretched along the front window. A part of Rick wanted to turn around, jump back in his truck, and drive back to King County. But a bigger part, the one that won out in the end, forced him to open the door and go inside. He couldn't see her from where he stood in the back of the moderately long line inside, but the place smelled amazing. Freshly baked bread, melted chocolate, smooth buttercream, the scents of the bakery came together in a way that made his stomach rumble.

Rick was greeted by a smiling brunette outfitted in a white and gold trimmed apron and a colorful headband. "Hi," her Georgia twang made the word sound lilted and stretched. "Welcome to _Clementine Cake Shop_ , I'm Maggie. What can I get for you today?"

Rick looked behind her, searching for a glimpse of Michonne as he pretended to look at the menu. Once again, he couldn't see her. "I'll have a small coffee and a piece of that apple crumb cake y'all got right there," he pointed to the display case next to the counter. "And uh…" he coughed. "Is Michonne in?"

Maggie paused and raised an eyebrow. "Michonne?"

"Yeah, Michonne Clement," he answered. "She owns this place, right?"

"Yes…" She continued to look at him dubiously. "Do you have an appointment with her? She only had one consultation for today."

Rick shook his head. "No, I just stopped by to say hello. We're uh...we're friends."

She smirked like she could tell he wasn't being fully truthful. "Friends huh?"

He nodded.

Maggie said nothing for a few moments, just moved over to the fancy coffee machine beside her and pressed the start button. Then, she walked over to the glass display case and cut him a healthy heaping of apple crumb cake and sat it on the counter in front of him with a fork.

"Well," she said finally as she handed him his hot coffee. "Michonne is in the middle of a wedding cake consult right now, but she should be done in a few minutes. You can wait over there," she pointed to the counter spanning the front window. "And I'll tell her you're here."

Rick nodded his thanks and pulled out a twenty from his back pocket, but she shook her head. "Nope, Michonne's _friends_ eat free."

He chose the far end of the bar, nearest to the wall and people-watched through the window as he ate and waited for Michonne to show up. The apple crumb cake was just as unbelievable as he thought it would be. It fresh, moist, and perfectly textured. Rick wondered if Michonne had come up with the recipe herself, if she'd actually been the one to bake it. He bet she had, looking around the bakery again, he could tell that she'd had a hand in every part of the place. He didn't know much about her - almost nothing, really - but he could tell that she had a classy, quiet elegance that he definitely wasn't accustomed to.

The soft clearing of a throat behind him interrupted his thoughts. He stood up from his stool and turned around, his blue eyes widening as he laid eyes on Michonne again. She was dressed differently than she had been at the meeting. Her shapely legs were encased in a pair of light wash skinny jeans, her small feet covered in a clean pair of white Nikes. She wore a white t-shirt with the bakery's logo on the front and her long locs were piled in a bun on top of her head, held there by a headband the same style and color as Maggie's. She was both sexy and adorable, even with the confused, slightly angry look in her eyes.

"What are you doing here?" She asked him.

Rick couldn't help but stare at her a little longer, almost in awe at how beautiful she was. "I'm just eatin' some of this apple crumb cake," he said, not nearly as unfazed as he sounded. "Did you make this yourself, by the way? It's amazin'."

"Yes, I made it," Michonne replied impatiently. "Why are you here in my bakery, Rick Grimes? Are you stalking me or something?"

"Well ain't you presumptuous?" Rick teased.

A dangerous look overtook her face. For a second, Rick almost thought she was going to take a swing at him. "Will you step outside with me for a second?" He questioned.

She sighed and nodded before leading the way outside. Rick silently guided them over to his large black truck, leaning his back against it and crossing his ankles and arms as he watched her stare him down expectantly. Without saying anything, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out the _Braves_ tickets, silently handing them over.

Michonne looked down at them, her face confused. "What are these?"

"They're tickets to tomorrow night's _Braves_ game," he answered. "You want to go with me?"

She looked at him shocked for a moment before she started laughing in earnest. Plush lips parted, long, slender neck revealed as she threw her head back in glee in his expense. "You cannot be serious, Rick," she said once she calmed down. Michonne attempted to hand the tickets back to him. He refused to take them.

"Oh, I'm plenty serious, Michonne. Those are damn good seats, they shouldn't go to waste."

"You don't have anyone else to go with?"

"Sure I do, but I'm askin' you." He was telling the truth. There were plenty of people he could have asked. His best friend Daryl, his business partner Ezekiel. Hell, he could have given them to Morgan so he could take his boy, Duane. But he wanted to go with Michonne. He wanted to learn more about her, to let her get to know him, to just be around her. It sounded crazy, even to him, but it was what it was. He'd never been great at denying himself what he wanted. History had proven that multiple times over.

Michonne shook her head and attempted to hand the tickets back to him again, sighing when it didn't work. "This is crazy, Rick."

"I ain't asking you to marry me, " Rick joked. "It's just a baseball game."

She gave him an impassive look. It was so hard to decipher that he couldn't even tell if she was seriously thinking his proposition over.

"I don't even know anything about baseball."

"I don't care," he replied.

Michonne looked shocked at his blunt answer.

"We don't even know each other," she said. "We probably don't have anything in common."

"We have plenty in common," he replied. "We both live in Georgia, we're both small business owners, we're both drunks."

A thoroughly unimpressed look came over her face. "That's not a good commonality to have, Rick."

"Damn woman, you didn't say they had to be good thangs."

Rick's gaze was stuck on her as she trailed her pink tongue over her lips, moistening the skin there. He thought about his own tongue in its place, kissing her, tasting her. His eyes stayed on her lips for a few beats too long, and when he looked back into her eyes, he could tell she noticed.

"Oh my God," she groaned softly. "I cannot believe I'm actually considering this. What the hell is wrong with me?"

"Nothing," Rick answered the rhetorical question. "You're a smart woman who obviously knows a good opportunity when she sees it."

Michonne tilted her eyes towards the overcast sky and shook her head in exasperation. Rick waited patiently for her answer, a sly smirk on his face.

"Fine," she said finally. "I'll go. But you have to leave now because I have a lot to get done if I'm going to leave early tomorrow."

He couldn't help but grin. "See, just as smart as I thought. Give me your phone."

Rick used her phone to text his, briefly exchanging their numbers, before handing it back to her. "Text me your address."

Michonne looked annoyed at his second demand but did it anyway. "Good," he nodded. "The game starts at 1:30, so I'll pick you up at noon tomorrow."

Deciding not to push his luck any further, he made his leave. "You are _not_ going to regret this, Michonne Clement. I promise."

* * *

Rick had expected Michonne to live in some hip condo or fancy downtown high rise. So when his GPS led him to a small suburban neighborhood filled with apartments and townhomes, he couldn't help but be surprised. As he pulled up to the curb outside her home early Sunday afternoon, he witnessed kids outside playing in the street, moms walking strollers, and joggers making their way down the sidewalk. It looked like the perfect place to raise a family, the kind of place he and Lori had talked about settling down in one day before Carl had been born. It did not, however, look like a prime location for a beautiful business woman in the prime of her life.

Michonne came to the door moments after he rang her bell, just a little breathless. "Good afternoon," he greeted her. "You look beautiful."

She looked down at the frayed denim shorts and red and white baseball tee she wore then back up at him, one perfectly arched eyebrow raised. "Thanks, you look nice too." Then she beckoned him inside and closed the front door. "I'll be just a minute, I was just packing my bag."

His eyes followed her as she walked the open floorplan, through her immaculately clean living room, tasteful dining room, and into her modern kitchen. "I'm bringing snacks," she called out to him. "You want anything?"

Rick followed her voice and let out a chuckle as he watched her shove granola bars and mini bags of Cheez-Its into her purse. "They have snacks at the park, Michonne."

"Yeah, shitty overpriced hot dogs and watered down soda."

"Hey now! You can bring all the little snacks you want but I have every intention of buying you one of those shitty overpriced hotdogs."

"Alright," she smirked. "It's your money to waste."

"Damn right."

As Michonne shuffled around, getting her things together, Rick took a closer inspection of her house. His actions halted when spotted something peculiar. It was a rounded clear bottle, nearly empty save for a couple inches of honey brown liquor. On the front of the bottle was a black stamp that read: _Kingmaker Whiskey Co. Est. 2010_. Rick's heart was caught in his throat.

"It's what was left of my last bottle," Michonne chimed in from behind him. "I know it's a little morbid, but I keep it as a reminder, you know?"

Rick turned around to face her. "Yeah, I get it." He picked the bottle up, feeling the weight of it in his hands as the liquid swished around inside. "It looks like we have another thang in common."

"Oh?"

"Remember when I told you I own a distillery?"

Michonne nodded softly.

"This is mine."

She didn't even bother to hide the surprise on her face. "No...No way...Are you serious?"

"As a damn heart attack," he said before sitting the bottle back on the shelf it sat on.

They stood there silently for a few moments. Rick wasn't necessarily shocked that she'd had his whiskey. They'd been increasingly popular since they first started producing - especially in their home state. But knowing that Michonne had enjoyed it, used it to fuel her own addiction just as he had, made him feel more connected to her. That, in turn, made him feel guilty as hell.

Rick heard Michonne let out a long suffering sigh. "Look, can we just...can we not be two depressing ass alcoholics today," She asked. "Can we just be two people on a date enjoying a damn baseball game?"

He perked up instantly. "Date?"

The dark beauty rolled her eyes at him and walked through the house and out of the front door, leaving Rick to trail behind her like a grinning idiot.

The ride to _SunTrust Park_ from Michonne's place only took about fifteen minutes but it was spent mostly in a comfortable silence. She still made sure to tease him about the George Strait CD playing from his speakers, choosing instead to put on some late '90s R&B. She made every effort not to dance in her seat, but he noticed her fingers softly snapping and her neck bobbing to the low, steady beat. Even just being with her was nice. The easy companionship he'd found with her even after just a short span of time made him feel almost giddy. And the fact that she'd taken it upon herself to call their outing a date had him flying on cloud nine.

It was a warm day, just shy of hot as hell. In normal Georgia fashion it was humid, but not so much so that it made being outside totally unbearable. As Rick and Michonne sat in the sun watching the slow baseball game progress, he watched as a light sheen of clean sweat developed along her hairline and neck. His mouth went dry as she rubbed her cold bottle of water along her face, groaning softly at the cool feeling. He had to shift and readjust in the hard plastic seat as his cock thickened in his jeans. Rick didn't think he'd ever get tired of looking at her. Especially not when she sat next to him, her smooth brown skin glistening and glowing in the sunlight. She was so beautiful it almost hurt to look at her head-on.

"So, you come to these games all the time?" Michonne asked him, working that bottle along the skin of her neck. "I can't imagine willingly sitting out in this heat on the regular."

Rick laughed, "Nah, I haven't been to a baseball game in years. I actually got the tickets for my son but...something came up and he couldn't come."

Michonne didn't look offended that she wasn't technically his first choice in ballgame companions, but she did look surprised. "You have a son?"

"Yep," Rick answered happily. "He's 11 and gettin' more grown on us every damn day."

"Us," she said quietly before she leaned away from him a bit. "Oh God, you're not married, are you?"

"No, hell no. Been divorced two years."

He was pleased with how relieved she looked at his admission.

"What about you?"

"Never married," she replied. "And...and no...no uh kids."

He could tell by the stuttering of her words that there was more to the story. Probably something devastating that she wasn't anywhere near ready to reveal to him yet. So he left it alone. Deciding instead to place one of his large hands on her left knee, rubbing his calloused thumb over the smooth, sun-hot skin there. She looked over at him, brown eyes locking with blue. Rick said nothing and neither did she, their gazes trained on one another as the sounds of the rowdy crowd played out behind them. Rick wanted to kiss her with a desperation that he'd only ever felt for one other thing in his life.

The loud crack of a bat hitting a ball made Michonne jump and draw away from him before he could lean in and seal the deal. As the ball flew out into the stands, signaling a homerun for the _Braves_ , the crowd roared. Michonne seemed caught up in the jubilee of everyone around her, sandwiching her water bottle between her plump thighs as she brought her hands up to clap.

"I guess you were right, Rick," she said to him, her voice lighter than he'd ever heard it.

"About what?"

"I definitely don't regret coming."

He reached an arm out and laid it along the back of her chair. "See, I told you, you'd have a good time with me."

"Now don't get too cocky," she replied, full of faux apathy. "It has nothing to do with you. I'm just really enjoying seeing all the tight asses in those baseball pants."

Rick reached up and tugged on her earlobe in retaliation. Michonne let out an earnest giggle that made him flush in pleasure and adjust himself once again.

After five long, pleasurable hours at the park, four hot dogs, and the complete desecration of the snacks Michonne had packed in her purse, the game ended. With the _Braves_ winning by a 10-point lead, everyone seemed to be in a good mood. Especially Michonne who didn't move out from under the heavy arm Rick kept over her shoulders as they walked back to his truck.

The slight awkwardness didn't even return as the duo stood quietly in front of Michonne's door. The sun was still shined brightly in the late afternoon sky, and Rick could tell that Michonne's skin had darkened up beautifully just a bit more on her legs and arms. He resisted the urge to push her up against the door and capture her lips the way he desperately wanted to.

"Well," Michonne started, her voice less sure that it had been earlier. "Like I said, I had a great time. Thank you for bringing me along."

"You're welcome," Rick replied, stepping closer. "I loved being with you today."

She gave him a small smile. He stepped even closer, this time reaching out to place a hand on her hip. She let out a small gasp. Their faces moved closer. So close that he could feel the puffs of her minty breath across his nose.

"I want to kiss you, Michonne. Will you let me?"

Slowly, with her eyes drooping just a bit, she nodded. Then, he was on her. Relishing in the feel of her full lips, so much softer than his. He moved his hands up to her warm face, thumbs caressing her cheeks as their wet tongues met. She felt unbelievable, like everything good and right and whole. Rick could have lived in that moment forever, with her smooth skin under his hands and her wet mouth yielding to him.

But it was over moments later, with Michonne pulling away and quickly shoving her key in her front door before moving inside. Her actions made it clear that she wasn't going to invite him in. Rick didn't let it phase him. He'd had a taste of her and he had no intention of it being his last.

"So I'll see you tomorrow then, at the meeting?" Rick asked to break their silence.

"Tomorrow," Michonne said, closing her front door quickly. Effectively shutting him out.

On the drive home, Rick realized he hadn't had a craving, hadn't been wracked with guilt, or been bothered by the countless people drinking alcohol at the park. "Rick Grimes the Alcoholic Failure" hadn't made an appearance nearly all day. It was a reprieve he'd only ever felt when he spent time with Carl.

It was such a good feeling. So freeing and exhilarating that it reminded him of his past. Of the days when he'd been happy and unburdened by the monster of addiction that had been firmly riding his back for so long. That was why, the closer he got to King County, the farther he got from Atlanta - and Michonne - the harder it became to convince himself not to turn back towards her.


	3. Three

_**Hey guys. First, I wanted to thank everyone for the incredibly kind and encouraging comments on chapter 2. They mean the world to me, seriously. Second, I definitely wasn't expecting this chapter to take as long as it did, I apologize. Michonne totally kicked my ass emotionally with her actions this chapter but it will be more than worth it in the long run.**_

 _ **Third, I'm incredibly excited to see how you guys react to this one. As always, enjoy!**_

* * *

 _ **Three**_

 _House burnt down, burnt down to the fucking ground_

 _I don't even care now if I make it out - NAO - Make It Out Alive_

* * *

Michonne could remember her first real kiss as clear as day. She'd been 13, wide-eyed and innocent in the eighth grade. She and Rodney Quinn had been making eyes at each other for months, smiling shyly at one another across crowded classes and trading Goldfish for Honey Buns every day at lunch. The more their peers swirled harmless rumors about their nonexistent relationship, the closer they got. But nothing ever seemed to come of it, not until one Saturday in April when they stumbled across each other in the mall. An hour later and she had Rodney pinned up against an abandoned kiosk, clumsily tonguing him down. He'd tasted like Orange Julius and the scrape of his metal braces caused her lips to hurt for days after. But it was nice, exciting even. So much so that the thought of that first kiss was the only thing to keep her out of teenage despair when his father moved the Quinn family to Baltimore at the end of the summer.

Rodney had been the inception, but Michonne had experienced more than a few first kisses in her life. Some had been God-awful. Uncoordinated, unpassionate, and completely unappealing. Others had been significantly more memorable. At 26, she met Mike Davis. A handsome lawyer with a beautiful wide smile and charm out the ass. It had taken nearly two months for them to have their first kiss, but when they finally did, she couldn't get enough. Mike's kisses had been enough to sustain her for a long time. But the longer they were together, the tougher things got. And the harder their life became, the more devastating their circumstances, the less magical their kisses got. Until they went away completely.

She hadn't been kissed in years. Two years, actually, since she'd felt a real touch of intimacy outside of what she regularly gave to herself with her fingers or her vibrator. The longer she stayed sober, the more she thought of her future. Usually, she imagined a quiet life. With her days spent working in the bakery and her nights spent joining in on Maggie and Glenn's game nights, seeing her parents over dinner, or curled up with a good book. Mostly, she hoped she'd grow into the loneliness and learn to live in it comfortably without despairing too much. She imagined herself content. Not bursting with happiness or filled with all-consuming love. But content. It would be a huge step up from where she was now. It was enough. She was sure it would be enough.

But that surety faded a bit when she closed her front door, effectively cutting her off from Rick Grimes. Body shaking, it was all she could to stumble from her position by the door to the couch in her living room. Her entire body felt like it had been touched by a livewire. Her brain buzzed, her heart raced, and her thoughts scattered. The kiss had been amazing. Rick had been the perfect combination of dominant and gentle. His hands strayed from her hips to her face, never going too far. Never groping her or pushing. And the spark she felt. _God_. it was nearly enough to set her on fire. Which was exactly why she had to get away from him.

She'd been trying to convince herself that the only reason she joined him at the baseball game was to appease him enough to get him to leave her alone. But that hadn't been true at all. She'd gone because she was curious. There was a large part of her that wanted to learn more about him, that wanted to chase the lively feelings she experienced while she was with him. But what she _wanted_ didn't matter, it couldn't. Curiosity was dangerous. She'd thoroughly enjoyed her time with Rick that day. She had felt freer and more unrestrained than she had in a long time. And it was dangerous for someone else to make her feel that way.

Whatever it was she felt with Rick needed to be stamped out. There were only a few things she needed to focus on. Maintaining her sobriety, repairing her relationships with her friends and family, and making sure the bakery stayed successful. Anything that fell outside of that had no place on her radar. Even if those things did come with grabbable curls, hypnotizing blue eyes, and a swagger that made her knees weak.

In the back of her mind though, she felt doubtful. She knew that she'd called their outing a "date" without him prompting her to. She also knew that he'd shown a serious interested in her. And as standoffish as she'd been with him, she hadn't done anything to truly discourage him. She'd been rebuffing advances from overzealous men for over half of her life. Telling a man all about himself to make him leave her alone had never been an issue. She hadn't given Rick nearly as hard of a time, though. And what half-hearted pushback she did give him, he took in stride, somehow sensing that she was more interested than she let on.

She hated herself for it but it felt good to be respectfully pursued. Especially by a man like Rick. But as much as she liked it. As much as she almost desperately wanted to entertain his pursuit of her, she needed to find the strength to keep him at arm's length. She was terrified of what might happen if she didn't.

* * *

Monday morning, Michonne distracted herself with work. She focused most of her attention on the ornate edible flower arrangement that would descend one side of a four-tiered wedding cake for a set of very enthusiastic brides-to-be. After finishing her first task, she worked on some very delicate spun sugar roses that would be placed on a large retirement cake. The rest of her day went as such. Her employees, somehow sensing that she wasn't in much of a mood to talk, left her to her work in the kitchen while they handled everything else. Michonne hardly noticed as they shuffled around her, talking, laughing, making use of the kitchen. She felt there, but not present.

She worked studiously to keep her mind blank and free from thoughts of Rick, or Mike, or Andre, or the four big gulps of whiskey sitting on her decorative shelf at home. Around 5 p.m. her phone alarm went off, signaling the end of her workday and serving as her reminder to get on the road to make it to the meeting in Madison in time. She moved sluggishly through the back end of the bakery, ridding herself of her apron and washing her hands. Before she could bid a proper goodbye to her staff, Maggie Rhee, her longtime friend and business manager, dragged her back into the break room by her arm.

Maggie didn't say a word, looking at her with an excited expectancy. Michonne rolled her eyes.

"What, Maggie?"

"What?" The brunette replied. "You're asking me questions? You who had some fine ass man in cowboy boots show up in the bakery yesterday askin' after you? I'm the one who should be askin' questions."

"So ask," Michonne said simply.

"Are you dating again? Is Rick your new man? Where did y'all meet."

Michonne counted off the answers on her fingers one by one. "No, hell no, and at a meeting."

"A meeting like...a meeting, meeting?"

"Yes, Maggie. One of those meeting."

Her friend was flummoxed, her pink lips opened and closed a few times without letting a sound out. "He wasn't here causin' trouble, was he?"

She shook her head, deciding to tell the truth. "No, he was here to ask me out. Which I said yes to even though I shouldn't have."

Maggie quirked a brow. "When are you goin' out with him?"

"I already did," Michonne answered. "We went to a _Braves_ game yesterday."

"And it went well?"

Michonne nodded.

"But, for some reason, you can't see him again right?"

Another nod.

Maggie let out a long sigh. "You're doin' that thing again, Chonnie. That thing where you refuse to let yourself be happy."

"I am happy."

They both knew that wasn't true as they shared a wry chuckle at the blatant lie.

"Well, I'm as happy as I deserve to be," Michonne mumbled.

Maggie reached out and grabbed her, pulling her upper body towards her in a tight, loving hug. Warmth surged through Michonne.

"I don't care what you say, Chonnie," her friend voiced. "You deserve so much more than you think. You deserve everything. It doesn't matter how many mistakes you think you've made."

Michonne shook her head and grimaced as she heard her friend sigh in defeat. They'd been having the same conversation for years and it never seemed to lead anywhere. Maggie was a saint for putting up with her. For trying to constantly convince her that she was wasn't as loathsome as she thought she was. Michonne almost never believed her, but it was appreciated nonetheless.

"Those mistakes are all that matters, Maggie." She paused, then let out a sigh of her own. "I love you. And I appreciate you. But I really don't want to talk about this right now. You need to get home to your husband and I need to go to my meeting."

Maggie nodded in defeat as they pulled away from one another. Michonne had to close her own eyes at the sight of Maggie's big green ones rimmed red with tears.

"And you can forget about, Rick," she said, tightening her purse around her arm. "He won't be coming around anymore."

Before heading to Madison, she made a pit stop at home, washing up a bit before changing into a pair of dark wash distressed jeans and a flowy black tank top. Refusing to let herself think too much about the purpose of her abrupt wardrobe change, she started her hour-long drive, letting the top-40 power hits drown out her worries.

By the time she got there, the seats in the basement were already half full. A few semi-familiar faces and some that she didn't recognize from the previous week sat in their uncomfortable chairs, waiting quietly for Hershel to begin. She took a quick peek around the room, noticing that Rick wasn't there. Briefly, she wondered if he had decided not to come. The thought sent a ping of disappointment through her that made her dig her fingernails into the denim hole in her thigh and into her skin in punishment.

She sat quietly for a couple more minutes, watching out of the corner of her eye as more people entered the space. Each time, the ping came back, and each time she punished herself for it. She figured by the end of the meeting her leg would be scratched raw. At five 'til seven, Hershel limped his way towards the podium, not starting the meeting yet, just gathering his things. Michonne took one more glance towards the door, her heart nearly stopping when she saw him walk into the room.

The soft clack of his dusty cowboy boots drew even more attention to his slightly bow-legged gait. He looked towards her, flashing her a small smile. A quiet gasp fell from her mouth as she turned around abruptly, embarrassed that she'd been caught staring.

"Were you lookin' for me?" Rick asked quietly as he approached the seat next to her, reaching down to move the purse she'd sat there. When he didn't move to hand it to her, Michonne reached over and snatched it out of her hands in a shamefully forceful move.

"Of course not," she answered. "I was actually hoping no one else was going to come through the door so we could finally get the meeting started."

He saw right through her. "Sure."

They sat quietly for a beat, before Rick spoke up again, "You kno-"

He was cut off by a quiet "Shhh" from Michonne as Hershel cleared his throat at the front of the room. She had no guesses as to what the man next to her wanted to say, probably something flirty or charming. She was glad she cut him off before he could get it out.

Neither Rick nor Michonne stood up to talk during the initial calls for speakers. She wasn't sure why he'd decided to opt out, but she knew she wasn't ready yet. As ready as she was to kick her addiction, she was significantly less enthusiastic when it came to talking about her issues in front of a room full of strangers - and the man she'd stupidly kissed the evening before.

Michonne sat next to him, one eye on Hershel as he spoke about the importance of believing in greater powers during recovery, and one eye on the denim clad thigh Rick had pressed up against her. It was warm and heavy. And the scent of his light, musky cologne had her wanting to press her face into his neck and breathe him in deeper.

Then her nails were back to scratching, not enough to draw blood, but enough to make her remember the real reason she was there.

Towards the end, she cursed herself for not getting up and moving as soon as Rick sat down next to her. For loving the feel of his body so close to hers. For her own mind as it wandered back to the kiss they experienced on her tiny front porch.

As soon as Hershel announced the end of the meeting, she bolted. Refusing to look Rick in the face she grabbed her purse and power walked to the parking lot. But he was right behind her, she could hear his boots against the hard tar ground, hear the jingling of the keys in his pocket.

"Did I do somethin' wrong?" He asked from a respectable distance as she unlocked her car door with her keychain remote. Rick didn't back down when she said nothing. "Michonne?"

The sigh she let out was weary. "What, Rick?"

"Can you turn around and look at me, please?"

She faced him, not saying anything but looking at him expectantly.

"Thank you," he continued gruffly. "Have I done somethin' wrong? Somethin' to make you uncomfortable?"

Michonne's gaze softened. She didn't want him to think that her behavior and avoidance had been his fault. It was hers. Everything about this situation was her fault. "No, you didn't do anything. I just...What happened last night can't happen again. I can't do this."

"You can't do what? We haven't done anything."

"The...The baseball games and the kissing and the flirting. I can't do it," Michonne's voice caught in her throat. Her lash line became wet with tears. "It's all just too much. I don't know why I entertained that. It was a bad idea. Stupid. So stupid of me."

"Hey, hey," Rick said soothingly, moving closer to her but making sure to give her space. "You're not stupid. It was me. It was all me. I moved too fast and fucked it up."

Her shoulders were heavy, as they dropped down. Michonne had to lean against her car to keep from collapsing onto the ground. She shook her head back and forth, not looking Rick in the eyes. "It's not you. Like I said, you didn't do anything wrong…" She looked towards the darkening sky. "I'm not a good person, Rick. I'm a mess. Just about every damn thing in my life is a fucking mess. I don't have time to date you or be your fuckbuddy or give you whatever it is that you want from me."

"I don't want anything from you, Michonne," she almost keeled over at how sincere he sounded. "I mean, yeah, I'm interested. Of course I am, you're smart and successful and so damn gorgeous. I just felt drawn to ya for some reason. I wanted to get to know you, that's all."

"I may be all of those things, Rick. But I'm one thing above everything else. And you know what that is because it's what you are too."

His voice was heartbreakingly emphatic when he spoke again. "But that ain't all we are. It can't be. And it don't mean we can't be happy either."

"No, it doesn't mean that," Michonne replied. "I just don't think I'm meant for that kind of happiness anymore. The kind you're searching for."

"Why do you say that?"

She sighed, working hard to make sure those tears didn't fall. "I had it before. That kind of happiness and I don't think it's possible to have it again."

God had she been happy. The disgusting, sickening kind of happiness that people imagine the characters in their favorite rom-com experience after the credits roll. She'd had the perfect man, the perfect child, the perfect home, and the perfect job. Now, she barely had her own self most days.

Rick took another step closer to her, matching her position as he leaned on her car alongside her. "There ain't a limit on the amount of happiness you can feel, Michonne."

"I used to think that too, but I was wrong," she looked up at him, brown eyes wide and glassy. "Yesterday, at the baseball game you said you had a son. Where is he now?"

Rick was a little confused at the sudden change of subject. "He's at home with my ex-wife. Probably eatin' dinner as we speak."

"So, he doesn't live with you then?"

Even in the dusky light, she could see Rick's jaw clenched tightly. "No."

"No," Michonne shook her head. "So how often do you see him? I can't imagine his mama is too happy to send him off to his drunk daddy all the time."

Her comment was crass and harsh. Rick didn't exactly sneer at her, and his expression wasn't necessarily unkind, but Michonne knew she was pushing his buttons.

"I don't have to explain my role as a father to you."

"No, you don't. I'm just trying to prove a point."

"Which is?"

Michonne gestured to the church behind him. "You're here for your boy, right? Getting sober to try to be a good man for him again? So he can be proud of you? So you can actually be there?"

He nodded. "Yeah, that's why I'm here."

"That's noble, Rick. It's a good reason. One of the best probably. It's one I can relate to. But I'm not getting sober to get custody of my boy or make sure I'm front and center at all his school plays. Because those things aren't possible for me anymore. My son is dead, and I've been shitting all over his memory for years. Getting right, getting sober, rediscovering just a fraction of what I use to be is the only way for me to make up for that."

She could tell he was shocked at her admission. So was she. Michonne could also see the transformation behind his blue eyes as he went from pissed off to concerned to wanting to comfort her. But she didn't want to be comforted, she wanted him to understand that she couldn't give him what he wanted. What both of them wanted.

"My life and my time aren't mine to give, Rick," she told him earnestly. "They belong to a ghost."

Rick licked his lips then dug his teeth into the one on the bottom. Michonne could tell that he wanted to reach out to her but both of them knew she wouldn't allow it. "I ain't even goin' to pretend to understand what you're goin' through, the thangs you must be feelin'. I can't imagine and my heart hurts for you because of it. But I don't think this is what your boy would want. He wouldn't want his mama unhappy."

"I'm not planning on being unhappy. I just can't be happy with you, or any other man for that matter."

He didn't answer her right away. Instead, choosing to keep his unrelenting gaze on her. She wasn't sure if he was searching for something or just trying to wrap his head around what she'd said. The disappointment was clear on his face when he acknowledged her again.

"Ok," he said nodding. "I understand. If you don't want me in your life right now, I won't bother you anymore. You have my word. I've got no interest in trying to convince you to want somethin' you don't."

Michonne felt to urge to bring up the fact that it wasn't at all about wanting or not wanting. Were she following her desires, they'd be halfway back to Atlanta, headed straight for her bed. Her refusal to entertain him had nothing to do with want and everything to do with her perceived needs. Like most of her other urges, she fought to ignore it.

"Thank you," she said gratefully. "But I don't want things to be awkward between us either. Hopefully, we're both still going to be attending meetings here and I don't want us to be distracted from our purpose by drama."

"There ain't goin' to be any drama on my end." Rick's voice was soft. "Like I said, I won't bother you anymore."

Michonne couldn't bring herself to say anything else. Nothing felt right. Instead of offering more platitudes or drawing things out further, she finally opened her car door and slid inside. Forcing herself not to think any more about Rick she peeled off quickly, but when she looked in her rearview mirror he was still standing there. His face fading from her view more and more the longer he watched her drive away from him.


	4. Four

_**I must admit. I'm a little nervous to present this one to you guys. The majority of the responses from chapter three were overwhelmingly positive and I seriously appreciate that. But I will say, this chapter definitely doesn't wrap the last one up in a neat little bow of resolution. You'll have to be a little more patient for that. It does, however, provide some much-needed character development for Rick Grimes.**_

 _ **Once again, thank you so much for reviewing and I can't wait to hear your thoughts on this one.**_

* * *

 **Four**

 _I won't be so loud if this is what you need_

 _I won't be so loud if you won't take my lead - James Blake - Love Me in Whatever Way_

* * *

Even if she wasn't speaking to him, if he wasn't supposed to speak to her, Rick was relieved to see Michonne at the next meeting. He sat in the back of the room, situated on the right side of the aisle in the last row of chairs. Michonne was where she always was, somewhere in the middle, probably thinking she blended in perfectly with the rest of the room. He knew differently though. He'd been able to spot her seconds after he entered, even though the majority of the seats had already been filled with bodies.

She was gorgeous as always. Her rich brown skin glowing even under the oppressive fluorescent lights in the church basement. She wore a dark colored tank top with thick straps, and he spent minutes upon minutes thinking about running his fingers and tongue on the soft skin there. No matter how hard he fought it, Rick couldn't help but think back to the kiss they'd had just days before. The sweet taste and feel of her full lips, the way her hips felt clutched under his palms. He'd relished at how soft and willing Michonne been in his arms that night. Holding her, kissing her had felt more right than anything had in a long time.

Rick hadn't expected the kiss to make them fall in love like some damn fairytale. He wasn't some 15-year-old boy who was too green to see reality. But he definitely hadn't expected her to tell him that she couldn't have anything to do with. Everything in him had wanted to push back, but he instantly understood how selfish that would have been. She wasn't interested in pursuing even a friendship with him, and it made him feel brittle and desperately sad. But he respected her wishes, he had to.

He accepted them, understood them even. But that didn't make the pill of her rejection any easier to swallow. During Thursday's meeting, Rick switched between listening to the testimonies of his fellow alcoholics and watching Michonne. Completely unconcerned with seeming creepy, he took notice of her ticks and tendencies.

He noticed that every time there was a pause between speakers, she fidgeted and shifted in her seat. It was eerily similar to the way kids try to avoid being picked on in class when they don't have the answers to the questions the teacher poses. Sometimes, someone would stand up and offer a particularly tragic story about their failing relationship with their children. Those always punched Rick painfully in the gut. And, if the frequent rolling of her slim shoulders was an indication, they seemed to do the same to Michonne as well.

Like every other meeting they'd attended together, she made no move to stand up and speak. When the meeting ended with her never leaving her chair, he found himself disappointed. He knew that he probably wouldn't get the chance to speak to her one-on-one again. That only made him even more eager to learn about her in the only other way he could imagine her revealing herself to him since she'd shut him out - through personal testimonies. He wanted to know more about her story, to find out what haunted her, to just hear her damn voice just one more time. But it didn't seem like Michonne had an equally pressing desire to reveal herself, not to him or anyone else in attendance.

He sat in his chair until the majority of the people in the basement cleared out. He was still thinking about her when he stood up to leave and spotted her in the short line at the exit door. She looked up at him and their eyes meet. It was brief, so quick that Rick couldn't even read the look on her face before she shoved her way through the line, out the door, and further away from him. The emotion building in his throat could only be soothed by a gruff, loud clearing of it that shocked even him.

* * *

Saturday was undoubtedly better than Thursday. Just after sunrise, he was woken up by a phone call from Lori. He'd panicked at first, thinking something was wrong with Carl. Instead, she'd surprised him by asking if he wanted to take the pre-teen for the day. He found it a little suspicious, in the years that she'd had sole custody of Carl, she'd never pushed for those kinds of visits. Not on such short notice, and certainly not for an entire day without her being there too. But Rick knew she had no intention of sharing her reasons and Rick had no intention of asking for them. She didn't even get the question out fully before he was agreeing enthusiastically. It took him less than half an hour to get up, shower, and head over to Lori's place.

His heart warmed when Carl's eyes lit up the moment he saw him. 6 a.m., fresh out of bed, with the impressions from his pillow still on his face and his boy was ecstatic. It would be the third time they'd seen each other in one week. Neither of them could remember that happening in Rick's most recent, more troubled years.

They'd started the day with breakfast at the King County Cafe - a place they'd gone at least once a week when Carl was a toddler. A time when Rick had, had better "control" over his addiction. The 11-year-old scarfed down a stack of red velvet pancakes while Rick nursed bacon, eggs, and toast. Even with their separation, the father and son found it easy to make conversation. Quickly moving from a school project Carl was working on to his new favorite comic book release to the fact that his mom had stopped allowing him to go outside and play unless his room was clean.

Truthfully, it didn't matter the topic. Rick was just happy to be having a conversation with his boy at all. In the week they'd been doing their after-school visits, their conversations had mainly focused on school. A quick story about middle school drama before they got going on homework and dinner. Rick appreciated any time with Carl, but it felt nice to be able to talk to him without having to rush through math problems or worry about the clock expiring a couple hours after he picked him up.

After breakfast, they did a little comic book shopping, then back to Rick's to watch the newest Avengers movie. Lori made sure to text him just about every hour, inquiring about Carl, asking what they were doing, and sending him non-subtle requests to be careful with their son. Rick tried his hardest to be understanding. And as much as he got where his ex-wife was coming from, he couldn't shake his frustration, even if he made a concentrated effort not to let Carl be privy to it.

Early afternoon Carl approached Rick, cell phone in hand, and asked him if he'd take him to the park to "chill" with his friend Duane Jones. He wasn't too excited about sharing his time with his son with anyone else, but he found it impossible to deny him.

As Carl and Duane kicked around a soccer ball on a quiet, wide open grassy area of King County's only park, he sat next to the other boy's father, Morgan. Rick had known the other man since high school. A couple of years older than him, Morgan had always been quiet and studious. They'd never been the closest of friends, hanging out with a group every once in a while. As they got older they developed a friendly business relationship as well.

He'd never hung out with the man just the two of him, and Rick feared it would be painfully awkward, but it wasn't. Even sitting quietly, watching their boys play, Morgan had an incredibly calm, quiet presence. So calm that Rick was surprised when he struck up a conversation with him.

"So how are you, man? You been good?" The man next to him asked, looking out across the field at their boys. "I heard through the grapevine you started going to meetings again. You go to the ones over at High Point Baptist?"

Rick chuckled. "The grapevine huh?"

He and Morgan exchanged an amused, rueful smile. They both knew how fast word traveled in small towns like King County.

"Nah," Rick continued. "I'm at a place over in Madison. They're going alright."

"Just alright?" Morgan's face was serious again. His brown eyes crinkled at the sides even when resting. They were somehow comforting and disconcerting at the same time. Rick fidgeted a bit, picking at a small fray in the knee of his dark jeans and uncrossing his legs at the ankles to sit up a little straighter.

"You know how it is, man. One day at a time." It was such a cop-out answer, and both of them silently recognized it. Morgan said nothing, just letting him sit in his answer, waiting patiently to hear more. "I think I'm doin' good," Rick continued after a few moments. "I'm stayin' sober, resistin' temptation and all that, but that ain't even necessarily the hardest part."

The man next to him hummed in agreement but otherwise said nothing. He kept those eyes on Rick though, laying him as bare as a damn baby's ass.

Rick cleared his throat and looked away from Morgan, towards their boys. Carl's hair was sweaty now, the longer locks clinging to his forehead as he tried to hurl the soccer ball off of it. "Everythang feels...I don't know...fragile, like it could fall apart at any second now. I've been tryin' to get Lori to let me take Carl more and I need to stay right in order for that to happen, but if it doesn't, if she don't ever think I'm fit, I ain't sure I can keep it up. Stay sober, you know?"

Rick's voice was gruff and soft. He wasn't holding back tears, but he was choking on the emotion he was trying to keep from spilling out.

"Why don't you think you can stay sober?" Morgan asked, genuinely curious.

He closed his eyes and tilted his head back a bit, leaning more on the bench they were sitting on. When he spoke again, it was without opening his eyes. "Sometimes I feel like drinkin' was always meant to be a part of me. My daddy, my grandaddy, and his daddy before him. All of 'em were drunks, every single damn one of 'em. It was in me from the beginnin', before I even realized it. Here I am now. Fightin' every day not to pass that shit down to my own boy. And as much as I want to fight it, I can always feel it there, and I'm scared I won't always be able to fend it off, sometimes, I don't even want to. I'm tryin' to be strong, to keep goin' for Carl's sake, but that don't always feel like enough."

Rick let out short chuckle full of disgust. He hadn't made the admission looking for advice or even sympathy, he was only telling the truth, as raw and unedited as he could muster it.

"You remember when Jenny died?" Morgan asked softly, his gaze atop the windblown trees in front of them.

"Yeah," Rick recalled sadly.

Jenny Jones died suddenly and tragically. The former teacher had been driving down one of the lesser traveled highways on her way back to King County from her mother's house. She'd hydroplaned on a turn and her car went careening into a tree. Dead on impact, the coroner said. But it took nearly a day for her to be found, ashen and lifeless in the front seat of her crushed Subaru. Her death devastated the entire town, but no one as much as Morgan and a 7-year-old Duane. Rick wished he could say he'd reached out and lent a helping hand for his kind-of-friend, but he hadn't. He'd been too knee deep in his own addiction to offer more than sincere but useless apologies.

"I know you weren't all there to realize it, but I wasn't anywhere close to bein' fine," Morgan shook his head. "I spent a long, long time as half a man. I could barely get up every mornin'. Had Duane makin' his own breakfasts and gettin' himself to school. I was out of it, man. I wasn't me, I wasn't a father or a husband, I wasn't anybody."

Rick didn't know what to say. His and Morgans situations were so vastly different, but the similarities between them were startlingly similar. It was the first time Rick could remember another person being able to relate to his situation so wholly. His daddy had died an alcoholic, and Rick wasn't positive that the man had felt even an ounce of guilt about the mess he'd left in his wake. As many demons as his childhood best friend Daryl had, the realities of failing as a father and a husband weren't among them.

"I didn't come out of it for months," Morgan continued. "Not even when Duane almost set the damn house on fire tryin' to make chicken noodle soup. As much as I wanted to be the daddy he needed, I couldn't be that until I had the want to be a good man for myself too."

Rick's brows furrowed. "I'm not sure I get what you mean."

"I'm sayin', I don't know shit about bein' an alcoholic, but I know about bein' a father and bein' a man who ain't livin', barely survivin' even." Even speaking softly, Morgan's voice was more powerful than Rick had ever heard it. "I know it ain't easy to hear, but you can't just want to stay sober for Carl. There's goin' to be a time when he has to leave, become his own man, start his own family, and he ain't goin' to need you to be strong for him all the time because he'll be able to be strong for himself. Then what? What happens when the one thing you were stayin' sober for ain't starin' you in the face every day?"

"I…I don't know," he answered honestly.

"That's why you've got to want it for you too. I couldn't get right until I looked in the mirror and wanted to see something different for myself, not just for Duane. We're parents, but we're people too," Morgan said. "You need to give enough of a shit about yourself to sustain even when nobody is dependin' on you to do it."

The words were nearly enough to knock Rick over in his seat. It wasn't something he'd ever considered. Everyone he knew, including himself, had been telling him to "do it for Carl" for years. He knew they weren't completely wrong either. Carl deserved a father who was completely present all the time, to love him, care for him, and lead him. Naturally, the only way Rick could be that father was to be sober. But it didn't have to, shouldn't have to, be the only reason. He hadn't made it through even half of the 12 steps in the AA program yet, but none of them so far had focused on using self-love to bolster your sobriety. Hell, maybe it was a given and he'd just missed the memo.

Morgan wasn't a therapist, and as much as Rick wished it were so, the revelation he'd brought on wasn't enough to cure decades of self-loathing and pain. That didn't mean it didn't open his eyes and make him view himself and his mission a little differently. Still, it was a little difficult to grasp fully. Everything parents do is supposed to be for their kids, especially when they'd fucked up as much as he had. The prospect of shifting the axis of his sobriety from focusing solely on Carl was terrifying. Partly because it felt wrong to de-center his son - even if only a little bit - in favor of himself. And partly because he had no idea what it meant to love yourself, especially not enough to save yourself from your own damningly selfish habits.

As he sat silently next to Morgan, the summer breeze ruffling his curls and the sound of his son's laughter ringing in his ears, Rick knew the latter of those tasks was the most daunting.

* * *

His conversation with Morgan sat with him for hours after they separated. Rick had fielded multiple check-in calls from Lori, stopped by the grocery store, and made a hearty spaghetti dinner alongside Carl in his kitchen. It was nearly 9 p.m. before his ex-wife called him, her voice a little rushed and breathless as she asked him to bring Carl back home to her.

It was a quiet drive, with the 11-year-old nearly dozing off as they ambled down the road with a CD of Johnny Cash's greatest hits playing softly from the speakers. When Rick pulled into Lori's driveway, Carl didn't make an immediate move to exit the truck like he normally did. Unbuckling his seatbelt, Rick turned a bit to face his son, noticing the small worry line between his eyebrows.

"You alright?" Rick prompted softly. Getting Carl to open up didn't usually take a ton of effort, just a great amount of patience.

"I've just been thinking about something," the boy answered. "You know how you and mom are divorced?"

Rick nodded, unsure about where the conversation was going.

"Well, I know you told me when you moved out that you and mom were splitting up, but that didn't mean you were leaving me," Carl paused again, his curious eyes on Rick. "But if that's true, why haven't I been seeing you as much?"

Neither he nor Lori had broached the topic of Rick's alcoholism with their son. Maybe it had been an irresponsible oversight on their part, but the wounds were so deep and neither of them knew how to adequately explain the situation. If he was being honest with himself, Rick hadn't wanted to. He'd hoped that he could get sober and Carl would forget all about the fact that he'd been relegated to seeing his dad for a few hours a couple of times a week for years. But his boy wasn't one to let something like that slide. And as much as it pained Rick, it made him proud too.

"Yeah, I know I haven't been livin' up to the promise I made you. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry if I made you feel like I didn't care about bein' your dad anymore, but I've always cared about bein' a father to you and I always will," Rick took a deep breath. "It's just...I was too sick for a little while. Too sick to really be there for you. But I'm gettin' better now and thangs ain't goin' back to how they used to be, they're goin' to be better."

Rick tried his hardest to explain it as best he could to the 11-year-old. Addiction was a sickness, one that he'd been suffering from for a long, long time. He'd come to grips with it, but that didn't make him any less ashamed about having Carl know the full truth.

"You were sick?" His boy looked panicked. "What kind of sick? You don't have cancer do you?"

"No," Rick placed his warm hand on the back of Carl's neck, hoping to soothe him. "No, I don't have cancer, Carl. Don't worry, I'm goin' to be just fine."

Their eyes, so much alike, connected as Carl stared him down, the little worry line between his brown deepening even further. "Are you sick because you're an alcoholic?"

The question was so softly spoken Rick almost missed it. Or would have, had it not knocked all the air out of his lungs. He could feel the blood rushing to his ears and easily hear the steady drum of his heart pounding behind his ribcage. Hearing Carl speak those words made him sick to his stomach. Had Lori said something without consulting him first? Had Rick been so obvious in his addiction that his child had been able to figure it out on his own? Either scenario had him pushing down bile.

"What makes you ask that?" Rick asked weakly, staring the boy down as if his eyes would reveal the answers before his mouth.

Carl paused like he didn't want to continue with the conversation. Rick bit down on his tongue to keep himself from speaking out again.

"Well, this week mom got me the new Spider-Man game for my PlayStation and I asked Tyler Davis if he wanted to come over and play it with me, but his mom said he couldn't because...because you're a lousy drunk and she doesn't want him around us like that. Tyler said everybody knows it too."

"Jesus, Carl-"

His son cut him off. "Is that the truth, dad? Are you an alcoholic?"

The look on Carl's face was so earnest that Rick had to look away for a moment. He had no illusions about everyone in King County not knowing that he was an alcoholic. Usually, he didn't care enough about what the small-minded assholes in town thought, but knowing that they extended their hatred of him to Carl in some form. Knowing that his son had been subjected to any kind of ridicule because of his shitty decisions filled him with rage and a whole host of other feelings he didn't have the time to unpack right there in the moment.

Rick was a coward. He knew it as he sat there, right in front of his son thinking of ways to evade the question and soften the blow. He wanted to be honest with Carl, but he was already hanging on by a thread. One that would have no problem snapping when he admitted the truth and saw the look of anger and betrayal on the boy's face. He didn't want to do it. Couldn't, more like.

"You shouldn't believe everything you hear, Carl. This is a small town, people like to talk a lot about stuff, even when they've got no idea what's really goin' on."

Carl looked at him for a beat longer then nodded. "Okay."

Rick leaned over the console and gave him a quick hug before the boy grabbed up his book bag and hopped out of the truck. Before he swung the heavy door closed, Carl turned back to look at his father. The dip between his eyebrows was smoothed and his face was almost stony with something Rick thought looked like pure certainty.

"Even if you are a drunk, I don't care. You're still my dad. Remember what you always tell me when I get in trouble? It doesn't matter what you do, I'll always love you. Forever."


	5. Five

**AN: This is the longest chapter I've written so far, but it also might be one of my favorites. I'm not going to give anything away about it but I can't wait to hear what you guys think about it.**

 **Thank you so much for your continued comments and support. They mean the world to me.**

 **As always, enjoy!**

* * *

 **Five**

 _I said I'd never grow old_

 _I can't remember how that used to be_

 _I find myself without the power_

 _I find myself without the glory - Alabama Shakes - I Ain't the Same_

* * *

The month following her emotional parking lot discussion with Rick was almost comfortingly monotonous for Michonne. Every weekday and Saturday she woke up at 5 a.m., made herself an egg over easy and two pieces of toast. Then, she readied herself for work, stopped at _Starbucks_ for a peppermint tea - no milk or sugar - before spending the next eight or so hours baking, developing recipes, and in cake consultations. Normally, she headed out a couple of hours before the bakery closed. Twice a week, she immediately went to the grocery store to pick up supplies for dinner. The other times, she headed to the gym for an hour of Pilates.

Monday afternoons, she visited the library closest to her house to scour for books to read after dinner. She carefully avoided romances - unwilling to risk the feelings they may forcefully arise in her - instead finding entertainment in old fashioned murder mystery novels. After years of avoidance, she'd finally caved and signed up for a Netflix account. During the evenings when her mind wandered too much, and she found herself thinking of Rick Grimes - even the slightest bit - she distracted herself with episodes of something like _The Office_.

The entire point of her newfound routine was to keep herself as busy as physically possible. When her days were spent constantly ripping and running, she had very little time to spend inside of her own mind. She didn't have to confront her feelings about Rick or the guilt she felt about speaking to him so callously that night. Michonne didn't fully regret her words or decisions. She wholeheartedly believed she was right in her choices. But some of the things she'd said to him made her feel more than a little ashamed.

No matter what Rick said, what Maggie said, or what her heart told her, it would be irresponsible to enter into a relationship with him. So, she forced herself not to think about him at all. That was, until she was tucked into her bed every night, with the feeling of his kiss fresh on her lips while her hand snuck into her panties, rubbing and thrusting almost angrily until she met her release. And every morning, she washed the shame of her self-dalliance off in the shower, promising herself that she'd abstain. But by the end of the day, physically tired from her moving and emotionally tired from the forced numbness, she always failed.

Michonne had been to eight meetings in Madison since that Monday night when she'd pushed Rick away. Every Monday and Friday she sat somewhere in the middle of the room, hoping to blend in with the crowd. And every time, she felt his eyes on her, steady and unrelenting. It took everything she had not to turn and look at him. Especially when a testimony or one of Hershel's particularly powerful "sermons" hit her hard. She knew that the small comfort she would find in his gaze would only be followed by an intense amount of shame. So, unlike the thoughts of him that swarmed her mind while she was in bed at night, she actively forced herself not to acknowledge him in any way.

It was another Monday that she found herself sitting in her regular spot in First Baptist's basement again. It was late summer, and even with the disappeared sun, it was incredibly hot. The central air conditioner worked over time and so did the multiple plug-in fans surrounding the room. But even the two sources of air combined didn't stop the small beads of sweat from dotting her head and chest.

Hershel began the meeting on time, opening it up with calls for testimonies instead of one of his usual lessons. She felt both horrible and thankful when none of the people who gave testimonials brought up their children or romantic relationships. Her relief was short lived, though, when Hershel made his way back to the podium with a suspiciously gleeful smile behind his white mustache.

"So," he almost sounded like he was speaking to a group of children. "I figured we'd do somethin' different today. Somethin' I was introduced to at a conference I went to over in Birmingham last week."

Without speaking further, he grabbed two large cups full of pencils and a stack of printer paper then instructed both people in the front seat on each side of the room to grab one of each and pass them along. The process took a few minutes, and the room was quiet save for a few curious murmurs from her fellow addicts. Once everyone was outfitted with their supplies, Hershel took to the podium again.

"I wanted to talk to y'all about personal responsibility today. It's important in every facet of life, but especially when it comes to addiction. Often times, when we're strugglin' with addiction we confuse accountability with hating ourselves for our mistakes and out shortcomins, and that self-hate doesn't accomplish anything. All it does it perpetuate a vicious cycle of unhealthy thoughts and behaviors. So, this evenin', we're going to approach this cycle head on, and start tryin' to keep it from continuin'."

Michonne swallowed harshly. Hershel wasn't looking at her or speaking to her directly, but his words hit her like they were the only two in the room. She wanted to get up and leave. Run out of First Baptist and find some other AA meeting that didn't force her to confront herself in this way. It was ridiculous and contradictory to the entire point of addiction recovery, she knew it. But the desire was still there, only to be exacerbated when Hershel continued explaining the activity.

"Y'all are goin' to pair up. Find somebody you know, somebody you don't know, the person closest to you, whatever. You're going to write your five worst traits down on the paper in your hands. Then you're goin' to share those traits with your partner and they're goin' to do the same. The only catch is that you aren't allowed to put your addiction on the list. You need to go deeper than the base level."

Her stomach bubbled, a sick feeling rising in her body so fast it made her shiver. By the time she stood up out of her chair and turned to search for a partner, she noticed that almost everyone in the room had already paired up.

Turning towards the back of the room, she spotted Rick, the only other person she knew. The thought of approaching him for an activity that was so personal made her want to bolt again. But the idea of cutting herself open while someone she didn't know at all spectated felt even worse. She'd finally consigned herself to move her body towards the handsome man when she saw him walk towards her. His strides were strong and sure but the look on his face was less so. He seemed almost afraid to approach her and it made Michonne feel awful.

When Rick reached her, he looked in her eyes for a few moments to gauge her reaction. When she didn't make any move to walk away he finally spoke. "You think we can suspend your no contact rule just for tonight? I don't know anybody else here and I ain't necessarily in the mood to make new friends."

Michonne nodded her agreement almost too fast, motioning for Rick to sit down in the chair beside hers. Neither of them said anything as the room quieted down. Like everyone else, they focused on the assignment.

Her right hand shook as she put pencil to paper. Focusing on writing the number "1," then a perfectly drawn parenthesis to avoid thinking on the actual purpose of the activity a little longer. It took her longer than she expected to come up with even the first trait. But from there, the others seemed to flow out of her with a surprising amount ease. Every stroke of her pencil opened wounds that she wished to God had stayed closed. Even though she knew their hiding place in the shadows had always had a time limit.

After she'd finished writing, Michonne looked up to see Rick's blue eyes staring her down intently, his paper already filled out. She wondered briefly if he'd had an easier time baring his softer, weaker parts than she did.

"Why don't you go first?" He asked her softly over the low hum of the other voices in the room.

She wanted to resist at first, pass the buck back to him, but she also desperately wanted to get the exercise over with. Michonne clutched the paper in her trembling, clenched hands, trying desperately to find the courage to share the things she never wanted Rick Grimes to know about her.

"I constantly expect myself to be perfect," she shared, forcing herself not to look up at him to see his reaction. "I avoid the things and people I don't want to face." Did he understand that he was among the list of avoided things and people? "I dwell too much on the past. I never, ever want to open up." Michonne couldn't help the small snort that came from between her clenched teeth at that ironic admission. "And last, I resent myself. Especially for the things I couldn't stop."

When she finished, she looked up at him slowly. His endless blue eyes had softened, the look in them almost made Michonne burst into tears. Just like that night in the parking lot, she could tell Rick was brimming with the desire to say something he knew he shouldn't. She also knew that she was too much of a coward to coax it out of him, no matter how much she wanted to hear it.

"Now you go," she said softly.

"Mine ain't nearly as poetic as yours," he said with a chuckle. She couldn't help the small, comforted laugh that was forced out of her at his half joke half compliment. "But I'll go anyway."

He didn't speak again right away and Michonne could see his calm demeanor slip a bit. She could almost sense that the few beads of sweat on his forehead weren't caused by the heat in the basement. His strong jaw remained tightly flexed along with his stiff shoulders as he finally started to read the words he'd written.

"Uh," his voice was rough as he cleared his throat. "I obsess over thangs too easily." He didn't look at her but Michonne's eyes widened just a fraction. "I ain't always one for talkin', expressin' how I feel."

That surprised Michonne. She hadn't known him for long, obviously, but she'd never gotten the impression that Rick wasn't good with his words. If anything, she was the one who had a hard time expressing herself to him - and everyone else.

Rick took another pause, his knuckles whitening as they curled tightly inward towards his palms in fists around the paper he was holding. "I have a hard time seeing the bright side of things, I'm a pessimist I guess. I'm stubborn as all get out. And for the last one, uh...I'm too much of a damned fool to do anything about these."

He laughed when he got the last trait out and Michonne did too. Out of all the things he'd listed, she believed that one the least. She didn't know what to say to him though. Admitting it was a painful, shame filled thing, but she'd enjoyed sitting with him. Even if they had been forced to talk about the worst parts of themselves, it was nice to see his face up close. That salt and pepper stubble had grown out into a short beard that she resisted the urge to rub the back of her hand against. His skin was a little toastier, like he'd spent a significant amount of time out in the sun. Rick looked good as hell and Michonne could hardly stand it.

She reared back in her seat when those blue eyes caught hers. She could see tiredness in the lightly darkened circles underneath, but they were still sparkling. The corner of his pink lips quirked. "You goin' to get mad at me if I ask you how you've been?"

"I wouldn't get mad at you for something like that, Rick." The words came out significantly harsher than she'd meant them too. She offered him a quiet, sheepish "sorry," to which Rick brushed off with a smirk.

"So how have you been then?"

"I've been fine," she answered, the air between them was tense once again. She didn't care for it. "I get my one-year chip next month, so I'm focusing on that."

Rick raised his brows in surprise. "Well damn, that's somethin' to celebrate. You ever made it this far?"

She shook her head in the negative. "This is my first time here at all."

"That's somethin' to be damn proud of," Rick chuckled, his eyes still on her. "My first time around I didn't last more than 2 months. I just hit seven last week and I'm hopin' like hell the third time's a charm."

Michonne found herself wishing the same for him. She could see how much he wanted it, how his tone adopted an almost desperate, starving quality when he talked about wanting to stay sober. Even if she wasn't going to be there to watch him do it, she prayed that he made it this time.

"I hope so too," she said, unsure about how to express her thoughts to him fully.

"Thank you, Michonne."

Hearing him say her name sent a shiver through her warm body. The word felt deep and thoughtful coming from his lips and she was almost disgusted with herself for wanting to lean into him and ask him to speak it again.

Before she could make a fool herself, Hershel grabbed the attention of the room with a short, loud whistle. "That's all the time we've got for today, y'all."

Michonne looked down at her watch and noticed that they'd gone nearly 30 minutes longer than they normally did. She cringed inwardly at even the slightest change to her new schedule.

Everyone in the room began to bustle, standing up to straighten out the chairs again and gather their things. She and Rick did the same.

"But before you go," Hershel spoke again. "I want you to choose one of the traits on your list and take a week to work on fixin' it without beatin' yourself up about it. Now, this ain't a homework assignment. I'm not goin' to question you about it or make sure you did it. That's what self-accountability is all about, if you really want to work on betterin' yourself, you'll get the work done."

Michonne turned her gaze from the older, white haired man in the front to the brown haired one standing next to her. She didn't know what to say. She wanted to express that the two of them working together didn't change what she'd said that night, but she didn't want to hurt his feelings - or her own. A larger part of her didn't want to confront it at all but run away to her car instead.

"Well," Rick said, almost as if sensing that she wasn't comfortable with expressing her thoughts. "Thanks for bein' my partner tonight, Michonne."

"Y... Yeah, no problem."

Gazes locked, she watched as Rick squinted as if he was trying to read her mind. "I'm goin' to head out. Busy day tomorrow. You be careful getting home."

This time, it was him who walked away without a backward glance - a sight that brought the sick feeling back to the pit of Michonne's stomach.

* * *

Wednesday, August 15th was Michonne's 36th birthday. Maggie had all but threatened her into taking the day off work. Instead of spending her birthday playing out her usual schedule, she stayed indoors. She'd held off her few friends from forcing her into going out on a weeknight by promising that she'd concede to whatever outing they force her to go on during the weekend.

In all honesty, Michonne had never been one for celebrating her birthday in a grandiose way. She'd had typical parties as a child, but after 13, she reserved big events for the big numbers. 16, 18, 21, 30, the only time she felt the need to celebrate in style was during those specific milestone ages. Any other time, she was content to enjoy intimate dinners or low-key nights in, and her 36th was no different.

One thing she always had to have, though, was a chocolate lover's delight cake from the bakery section of the Publix supermarket. She was a pastry chef, she'd trained and worked in some of the best restaurants in the country. Still, she couldn't deny the decadence of the lover's delight cake. It was overly sweet, lacking in depth of flavor, and was decorated in the most amateur way possible. But above all that, it was undeniably good.

Which was exactly how she found herself in the Publix closest to her townhouse at 8 p.m., wandering aimlessly around the bakery section as she waited for an employee to carefully pour the dripping ganache and place the strawberries on her cake. She looked up from checking out the expiration date on a freshly baked baguette when she saw him. He was tall and commanding. All smooth dark skin, carefully lined up hair, and a small smile that never seemed to waver. Like her, he held a small handheld plastic basket in his right hand as he looked over fresh cuts of meat in the deli. Instantly, her mouth dried, and she turned swiftly, hoping like hell he wouldn't be able to recognize her from behind.

She stood still for a few moments, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Briefly, she considered running off without her cake, but she barely got the time to lift her foot off the ground to do it.

"Michonne?" He questioned, unable to keep the surprise out of his deep voice.

She turned to face him, a guarded look on her pretty face. As soon as he was sure it was her, he was moving. He reached her in seconds. "Michonne," he breathed again as soon as he stood in front of her.

"H...Hi, Mike," she silently cursed herself for stuttering.

Her ex took a moment to look her over. Up and down his eyes searched, almost as if he was trying to make sure she was actually there. Though subtler than him, she took the time to do the same. Even more handsome than the first day she'd laid eyes on him 10 years before, Mike looked heartbreakingly good. She could see his thick, corded muscles through the workout clothes he wore, noticed how healthy and full his face was and the lack of tensing in his shoulders. Even his dark eyes radiated a certain lightness. Michael Davis looked happy, both inside and out. And as Michonne stood in front of him, careful not to underestimate her own beauty, she couldn't help but feel like his exact opposite.

"Damn it's good to see you, girl."

She gave her own version of a comforting smile but didn't return his compliment. Not because she didn't feel the same, but because she couldn't allow herself to voice the fact that she did.

"How you been?" He continued.

Michonne cleared her throat. It took a major effort for her to keep her eyes on his instead of shifting them somewhere else, somewhere less intense. "I've been alright," she answered softly. "Mostly working."

"Yeah, I've been hearing a lot of buzz about the bakery. Everybody seems to love it. I'm proud of you, Mimi."

She flinched inwardly at the old nickname. "Thanks. How have you been? You...uh...you look good."

"Thank you, so do you. But that ain't anything new, you've always been beautiful," he looked her up and down in a different way. "I've been good too, great actually. I just made partner at Powell & Peters."

When they'd split up a little over two years ago, the prospect of making partner had been one of his biggest stressors. That and her worsening addiction to alcohol. Michonne resisted the urge to reach out and hug him for his accomplishment. "That's amazing. I'm happy for you, Mike. If anyone there deserved it, it was you."

He gave her a small, dimpled smile. The two of them stood silently, the air between them stiff and awkward. Michonne's hand tightened around her small, half-filled basket and she rocked back on her feet again.

She perked up as she heard the woman behind the bakery counter ring a bell and call out her name. Both she and Mike looked over to acknowledge her and saw the round, chocolate cake sitting atop the counter.

"Oh, damn," she heard Mike curse. "I can't believe I forgot your birthday."

Michonne waved him off. "Don't worry about it, it's been a while since we celebrated together."

He shook his head back and forth, looking disappointed. "Nah, it hasn't been long enough that I should've forgotten."

"Mike, it's fine. Seriously." She honestly didn't care, but she couldn't help but think about how she'd remembered his birthday. Not because she missed him, but because it was exactly a week ahead of Andre's.

"You talked to your mama and daddy today?" He asked.

Michonne coughed. "Uh...no."

His brown eyes narrowed for an instant, the way the always did when he was about to call her out. "I actually spoke to your mama the other day. I was out to lunch with a client and saw her eating with some of her friends from church. She said you hadn't been by in a long while. No calls either."

She shifted her stance again, her shoulders tightening. "My relationship with my parents is complicated right now."

"You used to be so close, though. Even before we," Mike paused, searching carefully for his words. "Before we split, you talked to your mama every day."

"Things change, Mike," Michonne sighed, closing her eyes. "People change. Relationships change. You of all people should know that."

It was a shameful low blow and she knew it. But going on the painful offense when challenged seemed to be her go-to lately.

Mike let out a low, unamused chuckle. "I don't buy that, not for a second. Of course, life changes you, a lot of times for the worst, but that only makes it that much more important to keep the people who love you close."

Michonne didn't want to tell him that her avoidance of her parents was born out of her desire not to face the constant barrage of guilt trips, disgust, and overall shame she walked into every time she saw them. She knew her parents loved her, always would, but they didn't understand what she was going through. They'd always viewed alcoholism and drug abuse as something almost evil instead of the illnesses they really were. When Michonne's problems had finally been revealed to her parents, they'd suggested that she didn't need AA meetings, only more Sunday's spent in front the pulpit and prayer.

She wasn't planning on avoiding them forever, just long enough to show them that she wasn't completely lost. "Mike, I don't know what to tell you. I don't care what mama told you, she and daddy don't necessarily make it easy to keep them close these days."

He shook his head at her again then sighed, looking infinitely more exhausted than he had moments before. "Look, when we lost Andre-"

"No," she cut him off harshly. "I'm not doing this. We are not doing this. We're not talking about our dead son in the middle of a goddamn grocery store on my birthday." Michonne turned to walk away but he stepped in front of her. Mike was careful not to put his hands on her, but he made it perfectly clear that he wasn't letting her leave.

"I don't know where else we're supposed to talk about it, Michonne. I haven't spoken to you since the night I left."

"I don't know what else there was to talk about, Mike."

"You don't know wha-?" His jaw clenched. "There was a lot left to talk about, shit that had gone unsaid and untreated for a long time. After Andre died, you refused to open up, you refused to talk to me for years, Michonne. Years. Everything we said to each other was useless and shallow."

She bit down hard on the inside of her lip as she felt the sting of tears in her eyes. Vision blurry as she looked up at her ex. "I didn't know what to say. I wasn't sure what to say to make you forgive me back then, and I still don't know."

This time, he did reach out to touch her. Gingerly, he moved his hand until it was lightly gripping her upper arm. It wasn't sexy or romantic at all. In all honesty, it reminded her of the way her father used to comfort her as a child.

"That's just it, Mimi. There was never anything to forgive, you didn't do anything wrong."

Michonne eyes screwed tightly shut and she shook her head back and forth in silent disagreement.

"That was almost the most frustrating thing about you," he said softly. "The fact that you were constantly blaming yourself for shit that wasn't in your control."

Hearing him say those words almost made her heart stop. They were damning and familiar and horrible. She'd expressed nearly the exact same thing to Rick at their Monday meeting. Almost word for word Mike had identified one of her worst traits as a person and recited them back to her. They made her queasy and nauseous, but she also knew that Mike Davis had been one of the only people to watch her descend into her own personal rock bottom. Of course, he had a firm grip on all the things that made her so fucked up.

"I know," Michonne whispered. "I know, I know I do that. I'm trying to stop though, I'm trying to be better."

Mike's hand tightened on her arm comfortingly before he let her go. "Good, I'm glad you're trying. I've been seeing a therapist and he's really helped me progress, be a better man all around, you know?"

She nodded. She wasn't surprised. Mike had always been lighter and less troubled. Like any parents', his grief over Andre's death was massive, but he'd also been determined not to give up on himself. Obviously, Michonne had done the exact opposite. Sabotaging her chances at happiness and healing with isolation and liquor. It was no wonder he was in such a better place than her mentally and emotionally.

"Look," he said when Michonne didn't answer. "I've got to go. I promised my girlfriend I'd make her dinner and I'm already late. But if you ever want to talk...About Andre or yourself or anything else, just call me. My number hasn't changed."

She gave him a tiny, watery smile. "Yeah, okay. Thanks, Mike. It was...it was good seeing you. Really good."

It wasn't until she was back at home, staring down at one of Andre's old baby pictures and smiling a large, genuine smile, that she realized she'd meant her parting words to him completely.

* * *

As she sat in her regular spot and silently prepared for Friday's meeting, Michonne found herself watching the door, eager to see Rick. She had no plans of approaching him or engaging him in conversation, but she was in a surprisingly good mood. Something in her was desperate for his sparkling blue eyes to land on her and fill her up with a warmth she'd never really felt before.

As the minutes ticked by, she became more and more nervous when he didn't show. Her eyes strayed to the watch around her wrist constantly, hoping that each passing second would end with his confident, bow-legged gait striding through the sagging basement doorway.

It never did, not even when Hershel started the meeting nearly five minutes late. Not halfway through the man's continued speech about the importance of personal accountability. And Not during the tearful testimony of an alcoholic who'd started her recovery after she'd lost her husband to a drunk driver.

Every minute of the hour-long meeting that passed was pure torture for Michonne. She felt twitchy and anxious, automatically assuming the worst. Missing meetings was a no-no for newly sober people, especially during the first year. Rick had seemed so dedicated, if a little nervous, during their Monday evening activity. Her mind immediately pictured him laid out on his couch, sweating out whiskey in a deep, drunken sleep.

When the meeting ended, Michonne thought nothing of the consequences she'd convinced herself of as she rushed to her car. Scrolling through the contact list on her phone she found him easily. Without hesitation, she made the call. It took four rings for Rick to answer and when he did, her stomach dropped.

"Yeah," his voice sounded weak, hopeless, and scratchy.

"Rick, it's Michonne." She tried her best to keep her tone soft. She wasn't his or anyone else's sponsor. Nor was she qualified to give advice to those suffering through a relapse. Still, she wanted to convey as much understanding as possible.

"I figured when your name popped up on the caller ID." She swallowed when she heard him slur his words. "What are you callin' me for?"

"Uh...It's Friday...You weren't at the meeting."

"Yeah, I ain't feeling too hot today."

She nodded, even though he couldn't see her. "Okay, well. Do you have someone there taking care of you?"

Rick let out a weak, unamused laugh. "Nah, I'm takin' care of myself."

"Do you want me to come over?" She asked before she could stop herself. "I could...I could help you out."

For a moment, he was so silent Michonne thought he'd hung up.

"Alright, you can come see me, Michonne. But I'm tellin' you now, it ain't pretty."

He rattled off his address after that, so fast that she had to have him repeat it twice while she entered it into her GPS.

"I'm on my way over there, Rick. Just…" She trailed off, unsure of what to say. "I'm on my way."


	6. Six

**AN: I know I left things on a cliffhanger in the last chapter, so I'll keep things short here. Once again, thank you all for your feedback and don't be afraid to let me know what you think about this one.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Six**

 _I want you to want me the way that I want you and more - Jazmine Sullivan - Let It Burn_

* * *

Rick's breaths were short and labored. Clad in only a pair of ratty old sweatpants he laid out on his couch staring into nothing. Forehead dotted with droplets of sweat as he fought off chills he felt well and truly miserable. More miserable than he had in a long, long time. He screwed his eyes shut tight as the loud, ringing sound of his doorbell filled the house. The noise was enough to make the ringing in his ear vibrate through the rest of his skull. Slowly, he sat up from his position, so out of breath that he had to pause, seated on the couch before he could stand completely. Rick stumbled towards his front door, fumbling with the lock before he opened it to see Michonne Clement standing on the other side, the look on her face terrified and severe.

"Jesus Rick," she said, hurrying past him into the house before closing the door and staring him down. "You look awful."

He coughed. "I'm just a little out of it."

Michonne's eyes widened at his nonchalance. He didn't understand it. Surely, she'd been in the same position he was in before. She should have been used to seeing someone so "out if it."

She took a second to look around his place, noticing the stale smell and the small mess of his living room. The only light turned on in the entire place was a small lamp he kept on one of his side tables. Even the thought of turning on any of the other ones in the house had Rick feeling nauseous.

"When did this happen?" She asked, her soft voice was determined. "Have you been like this since last week?"

Rick shook his head. "Nah, just the last couple of days."

"Good, good. That means you haven't been on a bender."

Rick's eyes widened exponentially. Before he could get a word out she continued talking in low, rushed tones.

"We just need to get you and this place cleaned up, then maybe we can see about getting you to an emergency meeting somewhere close. Does King County have any treatment centers?"

Tired, weak, and worn down as he was, Rick nearly doubled himself over laughing at her. His deep guffaws bounced off of the walls in his quiet home for more than a few beats too long. When he straightened himself up again he saw Michonne staring at him, arms crossed over her chest and an almost unreadably angry expression on her face.

"I know it may be hard to understand right now, Rick. But this isn't funny," her teeth were obviously clenched, though she tried to hide it. "If you handle this relapse appropriately, it doesn't have to completely destroy the other progress you've made."

Rick stepped closer to her, not so close that they were touching, but close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating off of her skin. Seeing her concern for him made him feel just as warm. She was incredibly earnest, and it made Rick's chest tighten up. All that, on top of the fact that she looked so damn beautiful standing there in his living room, made him feel even more drawn to her.

For the first time in weeks, he wasn't thinking about what she'd said to him in the church parking lot. Slowly and cautiously he reached out with both hands, curling them around her soft, bare brown shoulders. His thumbs unconsciously rubbing slowly over her skin. It was ridiculously soft and reminded him of the warm skin of her hips he'd felt when he kissed her for the first and last time. Rick wasn't sure when he'd get the chance to touch her again, if ever, so he relished the feeling.

"Michonne," he said softly, eyes on hers. "I haven't relapsed, I'm just sick."

"What?" Her tone was almost dubious.

"My son, Carl was over here on Tuesday and had some kind of bug. I've been throwin' up and sick as a damn dog since Tuesday night," he was already starting to feel a bit breathless. "The doctor gave me some stuff to help this mornin' but I wasn't strong enough yet to go to the meetin'."

"You're...Sick?" She asked breathlessly.

Rick nodded.

Michonne took a long, ragged breath before she stepped out of his grasp and fell onto the couch. "Jesus Christ, Rick," she exclaimed from her seat. "I could kill you! I thought you were fucked up. I came to make sure you weren't completely gone."

He smiled and sat next to her, careful not to sit all up on her but closer than he would have in the days before. "I figured you just wanted to take care of me in my compromised state."

She gave him a withering look that made him laugh again. "No shit, I swear," he continued. "You were so insistent about comin' to me, I sure wasn't about to pass up the chance to lay eyes on you."

She was silent as she continued to look at him. She didn't break a small smile like Rick thought she would, but her face was much less guarded than he'd seen it in a long while.

"So, what-" his question was cut off by her own statement.

"Well, now that I know you're okay, I should get going," Michonne said as she stood up, straightening out her tank top and moving her purse to the crook of her arm.

Rick stood too, suddenly feeling more energized. "Why don't you stay a little longer?"

"I shouldn't…" she trailed off.

Rick had been careful to be mindful of her boundaries. He wasn't an asshole, he'd been telling the truth when he told her that he had no intention of forcing a connection that she didn't want. There were no plans to "convince" her to entertain him or coerce her into finding him interesting. He'd been trying his hardest to accept that she had no interest and he was mostly succeeding. But seeing her standing there in his living room made him crazy.

There was something soft in her eyes when she looked at him then. Rick couldn't help but interpret the look as one of openness. He sent a prayer up, nearly begging the powers that be not to have him pushing her limits before he spoke again.

"Why don't you stay a little while? You already came all this way, it would be a shame for all that drivin' to go to waste," he flashed her a smile. "I even have a can of Campbell's chicken noodle soup with your name on it if you want."

Michonne stared at him silently for a few moments. His heart pounded as he imagined her thinking of ways to turn him down gently.

"Okay," she said. "Sure. I guess you still need someone to take care of you."

Rick grinned and forced himself to walk away from her. Physically separating himself so he didn't grab her up in a hug like he really wanted to.

Minutes later he stood by the stove, slowly heating up a couple cans of soup while Michonne sat at the dining room table, her intense eyes locked on him.

"So how was the meeting?"

She blew out a breath. "Hershel gave another sermon on personal accountability."

Rick let out a bark of laughter.

"What?" Michonne asked, furrowing her brow.

"Sermon?"

Her tinkling chuckle had him closing his eyes to hear her better. "I'm never sure what else to call them. They sound like sermons to me."

"I thought the same damn thang," he replied. "I know he said he used to be a veterinarian but I ain't sure he didn't moonlight as a preacher too."

"Right! And he's so good at it. I've never seen a white man so good at delivering a righteous word."

Her playful admission warmed him. Rick loved that she was becoming comfortable enough to joke with him again.

"One of these days he's gon' fuck up and accidentally pass out Communion to a bunch of drunks."

"When that day comes, let's hope he doesn't get run over by the stampede of alcoholics trying to chug the "blood of Christ."

Rick snorted as he poured their soup into bowls and grabbed some saltine crackers. "If there's any liquor I can resist, it's Communion wine."

The soup wasn't great. It was lacking in flavor and a little salty and the texture of the chicken was truly bizarre. But Rick couldn't help but be grateful for it as he watched Michonne purse her full lips to blow on a spoonful of it.

"Seriously," he started, unable to stop himself. "I'm really thankful you came out here."

"Even if I ended up having you make _me_ soup?"

"Especially because you let me make you soup." Rick took a sip of his ginger ale. He wanted to ask her if she'd changed her mind about not wanting to see him, but he didn't want to rock the boat too much too soon, so he went with something else. "So how you been? I know you've got some interesting shit goin' on in that life of yours."

Michonne shook her head back and forth but she didn't tense up at the question. Rick counted it as a win. "Nope. Absolutely nothing. I go to work, then I go back home. I'm trying to keep a routine, stay busy, you know?" She snapped her fingers. "I did start taking a Pilates class once a week though."

Rick raised an eyebrow. "That the one that makes you all flexible?"

"No, Rick," she rolled her eyes playfully. "That's yoga." She took a sip of her drink too, then looked up at him through her eyelashes. "Pilates gives you stamina and endurance."

He leaned back in his seat and watched as her eyes strayed from his face to his chest. Rick had been shameless. Choosing not to put on a shirt on purpose. Even if she didn't want to be with him, he knew that she was still attracted to him. He could see it in the way her gaze lingered along his bare chest for too long, in the way her pink tongue came out to moisten her lips. Her reactions were small, but they were mighty to him. He was forced to adjust himself in the chair, hoping that his unrestrained, hardening dick didn't make too much of a scene in his grey sweatpants.

As much as he wanted to tease her and continue their short bout of flirting, as much as he - sick and weak as he was - wanted to stretch her out on the dining room table and dive into her, he didn't. Instead, he let their short silence drag out for a little longer than necessary. Until Michonne felt the need to fill it herself.

"So, what about you?" She asked after clearing her throat softly. "What have you been up to?"

"Pretty much the same as you. I ain't doin' no Pilates, but I'm tryin' to keep a routine. Get my work done, see my boy whenever I can. Try not to die from the overwhelmin' boredom of livin' life like this."

Michonne laughed, her pretty white teeth flashing at him from across the table. He couldn't help but answer with a grin of his own.

"So true," she said. "I haven't wanted to admit it, but the routine gets very boring after a while. It makes me feel old as hell. Is that what sobriety is? Behaving like you're 85-years-old so you don't fall off the wagon?" More giggles erupted from her.

Rick was mesmerized, he'd never seen her freer. Sitting at his dining room table, she was even more open than she had been on their date. He was almost moved into silence at the sight of her laughter. But he felt compelled to show her that he could keep up with her wit.

"If that's the case, we might as well throw in the towel now."

By the time their bowls of soup had finally dwindled down, Michonne's eyes were filled with a lightness Rick never wanted to see leave them. She kept it, even as she stood up from her seat at the table to prepare to leave. "Thank you for the soup, Rick. I'm glad you're okay, but I actually should be getting home now."

Rick turned around and looked at the clock on his microwave. It was nearing midnight. Rick knew she was a grown woman, certainly more than capable of taking care of herself. But the southern gentleman in him felt wrong about letting her travel the hour and a half back to Atlanta to late by herself. The feeling was only exacerbated by the fact that he desperately didn't want her to leave him.

"It's so late," he spoke, his heart seized at the leap he was about to take. "I don't want you travelin' back home by yourself so late and I ain't in a position to make the drive with you. Anything could happen."

"I have a cell phone," she replied.

"Service gets spotty on the highway between here and Atlanta. Maybe you should just stay here tonight."

"Rick…" She sighed, sounding desperately like she was trying to convince herself not to stay.

"We can watch a movie, maybe eat some more soup. I'll take the couch since I've been sleeping there anyway. You can have the entire bed to yourself."

He stayed quiet and waited for her to answer. If she denied him, he would accept it. But he'd meant what he said about it being too late for her to travel alone. Rick would be forced to get into his truck and follow her back to Atlanta to make sure nothing happened to her. The longer she took to answer him, the more he cemented himself to the idea that he would be partaking in a mini road trip.

"Okay," she said it so softly that Rick wasn't sure he heard her.

"What was that?" He asked her to clarify.

"I said okay, I'll stay," she pointed a long, thin finger at him. "But no funny business Rick Grimes."

He held both of his hands up in surrender, his face split in a giant grin. "You got nothin' to worry about, Michonne. I'll be on my best behavior. Promise."

* * *

He woke up on the couch again. The sun was filtering in brightly, even though the closed curtains in his front window. Instantly, he recognized that he felt a lot better. His head pounded less, his stomach felt settled, and his body temperature seemed normal. The only thing bothering him was the crick in his neck. It took a few moments for him to realize that he'd fallen asleep in a seated position. He didn't have the time to contemplate why before he felt her next to him...and under him. Rick looked to his right and saw Michonne curled up along the length of the couch. Her bare feet were tucked snugly underneath his thigh, he could feel their warmth even through his thick sweatpants.

He couldn't help but stare at her. Taking in the way her skin glowed with the morning sun. See how her long locs splayed around her face and the furniture under her. Even the way her chest rose and fell had him enraptured. She was beautiful. Rick shook his head silently when the word didn't seem to capture her fully. No, she was indescribable. She was captivating in a way that made his breath short. So utterly fucking awe-inspiring that he was positive he could have watched her sleep silently for a lifetime.

Rick forced himself to stand up and separate himself from her. He went to the kitchen and put some coffee grounds and a new filter in his old school pot and turned it on. Then he made his way to the bathroom for a shower. Ignoring his morning wood by dousing himself in cold water, he made it quick. He washed the remaining sickness sweat from his body in record time, wanting to be fresh and ready for Michonne when she woke up.

He was in his bedroom, pulling a black t-shirt down over his torso when he heard a strong knock at his front door. Hurrying towards the sound, he took a quick glance at his couch to find that the woman previously sleeping on it wasn't there. Rick would have panicked if not for the fact that her purse and shoes were still neatly situated next to his coffee table.

He was unable to hold back the surprise on his face when he saw his son standing in front of the door. "Carl? What are you doing here?"

Carl smiled, holding up a clear container of soup. "I wanted to check on you. You know, since I got you sick and all. Sorry for that by the way."

Rick looked behind his son, expecting to see his ex-wife sitting in her car in her driveway. Instead, he saw nothing. "Carl, how did you get here? You didn't walk, did you?"

The 11-year-old shook his head, his long, floppy hair shaking. "No, mom's friend drove me."

Lori had never had a friend bring Carl to see him before. She always wanted to make sure Rick was sober and alert before she left their son with him. He found it incredibly strange, but before he could question the boy further, Carl moved past him and into the house.

He heard two sharp intakes of breath, then realized that Michonne was still in the house. Rick closed the door and turned around to find both Carl and Michonne looking at him. Her with an awkward, caged expression on her face and his boy with unrestrained surprise.

"Uh…" Rick cleared his throat. "Carl, this is Michonne. Michonne this is Carl Grimes...my son."

Michonne nodded her head and smiled, it was small and a little forced. "Hello, Carl. Nice to meet you."

"You too," the boy said softly. "You're my dad's girlfriend?"

The choked sound that came out of Michonne's throat would have been comical if the situation was any less awkward. "No," she told him forcefully. "Not his girlfriend, we're just...we're friends."

Carl looked skeptical, the way he always did when he thought he was being lied to. But he was a polite boy, so he accepted her answer nonetheless. "Okay. You want to eat soup with us?"

The smile she flashed him was much more genuine. "No, sweetie. Thank you, but I should really be heading home."

Like the evening before, Rick geared himself up to convince her not to leave. But his son got there before him. Carl walked a little further into the house, standing in front of Michonne, smiling boyishly up at her.

"You don't have to go now, do you? It's still so early, maybe you can hang out with me and my dad."

Rick had to hold back a smile as he slowly watched her break in front of his son. He could almost see the exact moment when she made her decision to stay at Carl's behest.

"Alright," she said softly. "I'll stay for a little while. But I can't eat any more soup."

"I can make us some pancakes," Rick said from across the room, causing both Carl and Michonne to look at him.

The woman turned her nose up at him. "I hate pancakes."

"Waffles?" Carl offered.

"Those are basically the same thing," Michonne laughed. "How about I make something?"

She made her way into the kitchen, leaving Carl and Rick to follow her obediently. They watched as she searched through Rick's cabinets, pulling out various ingredients before grabbing the bunch of fresh bananas from the top of his refrigerator.

"Have you guys ever had Beyens?"

The father and son duo sat after confirming that they hadn't.

"They're Haitian banana fritters. Usually, you eat them for dessert, but I'm in the mood for something sweet this morning. How does that sound, Carl?"

"I love sweet stuff!" The boy exclaimed.

She turned around and looked at him for a moment, the corners of her eyes pinching just the slightest before she smiled at him. "Me too."

The kitchen was doused in a comfortable silence as they watched her cook. Even Carl, talkative as he could be sometimes, seemed enraptured by her.

Rick felt almost giddy to be able to see her in her element. She seemed comfortable as she heated up oil in his mama's old cast iron skillet. Her shoulders relaxed every time she dropped the mixture of mashed bananas, flour, eggs, milk, and sugar into the oil. The sizzle of the frying fritters seemed to make her come alive. By the time she had them dried and placed on plates to serve them along with glasses of milk, Michonne was positively floating.

She watched patiently as Carl took his first tentative bite. "Do you like it?"

Carl nodded his head enthusiastically, taking another large bite. "Mmmhmm, it's so good!"

Michonne looked over at Rick too, happy to see him enjoying her treat before she dug into her own. "I haven't made these in so long. Years actually," she told them softly.

"Who taught you how to make them?" Carl asked.

"My daddy," she replied. "My grandmother used to make them when they lived in Haiti and he taught me when I was a little girl."

"You're Haitian?" Rick asked, excited to have learned another thing about the enigmatic woman.

"Just my dad," she answered. "Mama's from Atlanta. Born and bred."

"You live in Atlanta, Michonne?" Rick didn't even have it in him to reprimand Carl for speaking with a mouth full of food.

"Sure am, you ever been?"

"Yeah, my class went to the Children's Museum on a field trip last year, it was so cool."

"It sure is," she said indulgently. "I used to take my son there all the time."

Rick looked up at her in surprise, but she wasn't looking at him. Instead, watching Carl scarf down his last fritter. She'd given the small detail without any prompting or pain in her voice. He'd never heard her speak of her son with anything less than despair.

"You have a son?" Carl was excited. "How old is he?"

Michonne's eyes widened as if she finally realized what she'd said. She stammered a bit, looking both unsure and unwilling to answer the question. Rick tried his hardest to save her.

"Carl, why don't you gather up these plates and put them in the dishwasher. I'll clean up the rest later."

He could tell his son wanted to push a little more for Michonne's answer, but Rick gave him a small push, the look on his face making it clear that the conversation was over.

He didn't think twice about reaching across the table to her and grasping her warm hand. He counted it as a victory when she didn't pull away. Instead, looking thankfully into his eyes as his thumb rubbed soothingly over the skin on the back of her hand.

Their moment of silence was over when Carl came back to the table. Rick sent up one silent prayer when his son didn't ask Michonne about her son again and another when the boy convinced her to stay and play a few board games with them.

One raucous game of Monopoly, an equally intense bout of Uno, and halfway through The Incredibles later, Rick found himself full of something he had a hard time putting a name to. The passing hours had seen Carl and Michonne become fast friends. She knew a surprising amount about his favorite comic book characters, had seen almost all of his favorite movies, and even shared his love for his favorite candy bar - Big Kat. She was amazing with him. Attentive, engaging, and enthusiastic. Rick could easily picture her as a mother to her own son. It was both heartbreaking and beautiful to see her interact so well with his.

Their day was cut short, however, when Lori called Rick around 3 p.m. and asked him to bring Carl home. He agreed reluctantly, not wanting to push his luck with their visitations but still more than a little annoyed.

He shuffled Carl into his truck and had Michonne promise to stay at his house until he returned before they were off.

"I like Michonne," Carl said after trying unsuccessfully trying to find a good song on the radio.

"I do too," Rick answered with a smile.

"You sure she's not your girlfriend?"

"Yes," the father laughed. "I'm sure, Carl."

"Well...maybe she should be."

Rick silently agreed with him. Their time spent together had only served to make him more drawn to her. Rick wasn't sure how he was supposed to go back to the avoidance they'd shared in the weeks before. He hoped like hell he didn't have to.

"We'll see bud," he ruffled Carl's hair. "Only if I can get her to like me."

Carl rolled his eyes. "I think she already likes you, dad."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. She smiles a lot when you talk and stuff. _And_ she went easy on you when we were playing Uno. You don't do that unless you like somebody."

Rick laughed at his son's oversimplified definition as they pulled into Lori's driveway. Instead of letting Carl out of the car alone, he walked him to the door, greeting Lori as she answered the ringing of the bell.

He watched as their son bid him goodbye and ran into the home before turning to look at her again.

"Who was it that dropped Carl off at my place this mornin'?"

She furrowed her dark brows and pursed her thin lips a bit. "I had a friend drop him off because I had to run to mama's for somethin'."

"A friend?" Rick questioned. It was the second time he'd heard it that day and he was more than suspicious. "Who was it? Carol Peletier?" He inquired about Lori's neighbor who had a daughter that Carl sometimes played with.

"No, Rick. Just a friend from work."

He figured it must have been one of the other secretaries Lori worked with at the Sheriff's station, so he dropped it.

"Lori, thangs are changin' now. I'm in Carl's life more, I'm here and I ain't goin' anywhere. That means I deserve to know what's goin' on with our boy. If you want me to get him, just tell me. Don't have random people droppin' him off at my house without so much as a showin' their face to me while they do it."

She didn't look happy to hear him making demands, but she accepted it anyway. "Alright."

"Good," he said, hoping the finality in his voice left no room for further discussion. "Have a good one then. Tell Carl I'll call him tonight."

His mood was immediately soured when he pulled up in front of his home to notice that Michonne's car wasn't parked in front of his detached garage. When he entered the house, he could still smell her clean, floral scent wafting in the air. He cursed, throwing his keys down on the table in frustration before checking his phone. She hadn't left him a goodbye text or initiated a phone call either. For the first time, he found himself angry at her. They'd spent so much time together, he deserved a least a goddamn goodbye.

Sitting down on the couch, slouched in defeat, he perked up when he saw a piece of paper on his coffee table. It was folded over and had his name written on the front in flowy, beautiful script.

 ** _Rick,_**

 ** _Sorry I had to leave so soon. I promised my friends I'd go out tonight and forgot all about it until you left. I'll call you later to make sure you're still feeling well. Thanks for a great night/day._**

 ** _Rest up,_**

 ** _Michonne_**

The letter was short. There were no flowery declarations or admissions of love, but it made him happy all the same. It was incredible, knowing that she hadn't run away from him in fear. He folded the letter up until it was a small square then placed it in the leather wallet he pulled from his back pocket. Insignificant as the letter may have seemed, Rick fully understood the gravity of it. He knew better than to downplay anything when it came to Michonne Clement.


	7. Seven

**So... This chapter was supposed to drop yesterday, but real life got in the way so I'm sorry to anyone who was looking out for it and got disappointed.**

 **I will say, I was a little worried about this chapter. Largely because a large portion of it doesn't pass the Bechdel test (you should totally look into it if you don't know what that is). But then I remembered that, one this is a story that needs to continue moving along, and as such, I can't fill all of the valuable plotting space with tons of innocuous conversations that mean nothing. Secondly, I know what conversations with my friends in real life look like, and we talk about men - and our relationships with them - a lot. And third, this is my damn story, so I'm allowed to do what I want.**

 **I also want to thank everyone who takes the time to review this story. You guys have no idea how much your thoughts, opinions, and reactions spur me on and encourage me to make SACW the best story I possibly can. I love hearing from you, so keep on sending me words of your own!**

 **I think this is the longest author's note I've ever written. I'll shut up now. As always, enjoy!**

* * *

 **Seven**

 _I don't know if I'm scared of dying_

 _But I'm scared of living too fast, too slow - First Aid Kit - My Silver Lining_

* * *

"I hate that they took the braised lamb shanks off the menu," Sasha voiced as she turned the menu over only to be even more disappointed that it was one-sided. "It was pretty much the only reason we come to this place."

Maggie snorted. "No, _we_ come to this place because we like it. You're the only one who decided to only ever try one thing on the menu."

"If it ain't broke," Sasha sassed back.

"Why don't you try the bouillabaisse?" Michonne suggested in an attempt to be helpful.

"I'm not in the mood for seafood."

Her answer was short and a little snappish, causing Michonne and Maggie to look up at her with eyebrows raised. Sasha had a tendency to get a little bitchy when she was disappointed, and it often fell to them to get her back into place.

While the pretty, tawny-skinned woman didn't issue an actual apology, she sighed shamefully. "I think I'll just go with the coq au vin."

They were at Pierre's, a French restaurant in Buckhead that had been around since the '70s. They'd discovered it during undergrad and the elegant decor and dress code had made them feel incredibly sophisticated for 20-years-old. The reasonable prices, on the other hand, had been easy on their almost nonexistent budgets. In the 16 years that followed, the three women had made visiting Pierre's a regular occurrence.

Even in her worst days, their monthly trips had been something Michonne had always looked forward to. She'd always made sure to try to look her best and stay as sober as possible before and during. In the two hours they sat around a table, ate good food, and enjoyed each other's company, she could feel the vestiges of her old happy self blurring around the edges of the new her.

This time though, was different. She'd completely forgotten that she had made plans to celebrate her belated birthday with Maggie and Sasha that evening. When Maggie texted her to confirm their plans earlier that afternoon she'd still been in King County, sitting comfortably on Rick's black leather couch. She was disappointed to admit it, but she'd felt a pang of disappointment at the sweet reminder from her friend.

A part of her, a large one at that, had wanted to stay seated right where she was. To wait for Rick to come back like she'd promised to do and talk to him some more. Another part of her knew that, that would have been a bad idea. Both because it would have been rude to blow off her friends and because she was a little terrified at what she and Rick would have gotten into had she stayed longer.

Rick's presence was overwhelming. In the evening, morning, and afternoon that she'd spent with him, she'd been constantly consumed by the sheer physicality of him. Seeing him without a shirt, even sick and sweaty, made her heart race. He was strong and incredibly masculine but there was nothing about his form that seemed to be rooted in a vain attempt to gain muscle. He was mouthwatering on every level. And the showing of his skin, combined with his grey sweatpants - and the impressive appendage they barely concealed - we're...distracting, to say the least.

She'd had a great time with Rick. Had thoroughly enjoyed talking with him, even spending time with his adorable little son hadn't been nearly as painful as she imagined it would be. Those feelings were forcing her to reconsider letting him into her life in some capacity. But her desire for him had been festering for weeks and she was terrified of what she would have done to slake that desire once alone with Rick again. So, in the end, it was her ever growing lust that ultimately helped her make her decision to leave rather than stay.

But sitting in Pierre's, feeling happier than she had in a while and surrounded by her best friends, Michonne still couldn't help the pang of regret that surged through her.

Michonne looked up from her menu to see their waiter return with three glasses of water.

"Sorry for the wait, ladies," he sat the drinks on the table then pulled a wine menu from the black apron around his waist. "Can I interest you in some wine before we get your food orders in? We just received a few bottles of 2015 Siduri Pinot Noir, it's one of the most popular red wines on our menu currently."

The table went silent. Michonne swallowed harshly as two pairs of eyes fell on her. She could see the uncertainty in Maggie and Sasha's respective gazes and she hated it. She always tried her hardest to stay away from alcohol in her everyday life because it helped lessen the temptation to drink. But that didn't mean she turned into a rabid animal at the sight of the damn stuff. She had to remind herself that her friends didn't know all of the gory details and inner workings of alcoholism. Because of that, they needed patience.

"It's fine guys," she said quietly, hoping the waiter couldn't hear her. "You can get wine if you want to."

Maggie stared at her for a little longer before turning to the young man waiting patiently beside their table. "I'm fine, I think I'll stick with my water, thank you."

"Me too," Sasha said. "I have plenty of wine at home to drink, I don't need to be spending money on even more."

Their conversation resumed after he finished jotting down their orders and walked away swiftly.

"What have you guys been up to?" Michonne asked. "I feel like we haven't gotten together in a while."

Sasha snorted. "We? Y'all see each other every day."

"Yeah, but you know how busy the bakery gets. We're mostly talking about replacing the icing sugar stock and the weekly schedule. We don't have time to gossip."

"Well at least you get to lay eyes on each other. I've gotten nary a FaceTime in weeks. Weeks!"

"You don't even have an iPhone to receive FaceTime on, Sash," Michonne laughed.

"Semantics," her friend said, dipping her fingers in her water before flicking the droplets in Michonne's general direction.

Maggie let out a small, dignified giggle before tucking her hands into her lap. "Me and Glenn are trying to have a baby."

Both Michonne and Sasha tried to hide the shock on their faces. The small smirk that appeared on their friend's face clued them into the fact that they'd failed.

"I thought you guys decided you didn't want any kids," Michonne said softly.

"We didn't, but after," she paused and Michonne knew instantly what she was struggling to say.

She and Glenn had been close with Andre. Maggie had even been his godmother. Hell, the lock screen on her phone was still a picture of the two of them together. It made sense that his life - and his death - had made such an impact on her feelings toward having children of her own. It only shocked Michonne that the tragedy of it didn't push her further in the other direction.

"We've just been reevaluating lately, and we want to be parents," Maggie continued.

Michonne reached over and grasped her friend's hands. Her heart was stuck in her throat, essentially preventing her from speaking, but she wanted to show support nonetheless.

"How long have y'all been trying?" Sasha asked.

"Not long, just a couple months."

"So, you could be knocked up right now?"

"It's possible."

"No wonder you didn't want any wine," Michonne voiced, feeling a little better at the lightening of the conversation.

A round of girlish giggles rang out at the table.

"What about you, Sash? I know Abe is dying to get his little red headed babies in you," Maggie joked.

Sasha rolled her big brown eyes. "I don't know about all that," she said. "But his deployment is up in five months, so I guess we'll have to start talking about it then. This old uterus isn't going to be in its prime much longer."

Their conversation was paused by their waiter bringing their food to the table. The plates were steaming and delicious and Michonne couldn't help the loud rumble that ran through her stomach. She hadn't eaten anything since she'd made Beyens for Carl and Rick that morning and she was ravenous.

"Are you excited that he's coming home so soon?" Michonne asked, cutting into her duck confit. "It's been almost a year and a half, right?"

Sasha nodded. "Yeah, and this is it. He's retiring after this one." The look on her face was guarded.

Maggie and Michonne waited quietly, knowing that Sasha preferred to spill her thoughts at her own pace, in her own time.

"We've been married for seven years and together for nine. In all that time, between all of our deployments, we've been able to spend maybe eight months together in consecutive time. The rest of our relationship has been broken up between multiple yearlong intervals away from each other."

Sasha had enlisted in the Air Force right after earning a degree in civil engineering at Georgia State University. She'd met Abraham Ford - a Marine - a few years later while they were both stationed in Hawaii. Like many military couples, their relationship had burned hot and fast. Michonne hated to admit it, but she'd been surprised when the duo had actually made it to the altar. Sasha had been right though, in the seven years they'd been married, she had been deployed three times - twice for 18 months and once for 12. Abe had been deployed four times - a time frame that totaled two years altogether.

Michonne had never understood how they'd managed it and had always admired her friends for keeping their marriage strong in the wake of such separation. But seeing Sasha's face, looking vulnerable and unsure, Michonne sensed that there had been deeper problems there - ones that no one else but Sasha and Abe had been privy to.

"I think we'll be fine," Sasha said after a bite of her coq au vin. "But now that we'll both be out for good, I'm worried that we don't really know how to be a real married couple."

Michonne and Maggie nodded their heads in understanding. "I think you should look at it as a bit of a blessing," Michonne voiced. "It gives you a chance to learn each other all over again. Recapture what it was like to fall in love the first time."

"I hadn't thought of it like that." Sasha looked genuinely surprised at the suggestion.

"That's why you need to come to your girls more instead of keeping this stuff to your stubborn ass self," Maggie joked.

Once again, Sasha rolled her eyes. "Speaking of keeping stuff to ourselves. I'm going to need you to open up, Mimi. I know you don't like talking about it with us, but how are your meetings going?"

Her first instinct was to deflect and run from the question. Sasha was right, she didn't often share information about her continued quest for sobriety. It had taken everything in her to admit to her friends that she was an alcoholic seeking help in the first place - no matter how supportive and amazing they'd been. There was a large part of her that didn't want them to be privy to Alcoholic Michonne so that things could go back to normal after her initial recovery period. The bigger part - the more logical part - knew that that wasn't a possibility for her anymore. That her life and her relationships had been changed irrevocably by her addiction.

Michonne sweated as she thought back to the lists of her worst traits she'd tacked onto the mirror in her bedroom. _I never ever want to open up_. She recalled the entry in her loopy handwriting on the stark white sheet. She _didn't_ want to open up. Unsticking her lips from one another to tell her friends about the current affairs of her life felt almost impossible. But she powered through it.

"The meetings...the meetings are fine. I really like the guy who leads them, he's very inspirational." Michonne took a sip of her eater to wet her dry mouth. "I hit my year in less than two months so I'm just focusing on that right now."

She gave a gracious smile as Maggie and Sasha gave her their congratulations and words of encouragement. "There's something that's worrying me though," she looked down at her plate.

For a second, she thought about telling them about Rick Grimes. About the swelling of emotions she felt whenever she saw him. About how much his smile made her want to curl up in its warmth and never leave. About his adorable young son who'd made the tragedy of losing her own a little less intense, even if only for a few hours. She didn't, couldn't even. And not necessarily because she was ashamed of the fact that she had developed feelings for another alcoholic. But because she felt shitty about the fact that she didn't feel strong enough to resist his charms anymore. Especially because she felt like the routine calmness and muted emotions she'd adopted in her life the past month depended on him being in it as little as possible.

"What is it?" Sasha asked. "You're not worried about staying sober, are you?"

"I think I'll always worry about staying sober, Sash. That's going to be a part of my life forever now. But no, I don't think I'm going to fall off the wagon anytime soon. At least, I'm going to try my hardest not to." She sat her knife and fork down on the plate along with her half-eaten duck, appetite officially gone. "I'm worried about the future. Of what my life is supposed to be after I hit this milestone."

Her friends looked a little confused. "Well, what do you want it to be?" Maggie questioned.

"I don't know. I don't know what kind of life I want now because I don't know who I am now," she choked on the tears she refused to let spill. "Before, I was a mother, now I'm not anymore. Then, I was an alcoholic, now I'm not anymore. The things I've used to define myself for so long are becoming less familiar every day. What happens to me now? Who am I supposed to be?"

"I'm going to tell you a secret, Mimi. You ready?" Sasha asked with a small smile.

"Yeah," she answered softly.

"None of us know who we're supposed to be or what we're supposed to be doing."

Maggie chuckled. "Sash is right. You were the only one of us who every had it all figured out. Now you're just finally on our level."

"I never had it _all_ figured out," Michonne mumbled. "Just...a good amount of it."

Her admission caused her friends to erupt in giggles.

"But seriously, Michonne. It's okay to still be figurin' things out. Especially after you've been through so much. Your life is changing, you're changing. You don't have to have all the answers now and it's okay to be afraid of the future. All you can do is keep trying your damnedest to make sure you have one at all."

"What she said," Sasha chimed in.

Maggie's words shouldn't have been such a revelation to Michonne. But they gave her pause anyway. She'd spent the majority of her life, even before her personal tragedies, trying her hardest to make her life perfect. Even when things had deviated from her carefully laid plans, they'd always turned out ideally. Now, things were different, but she still seemed to be chasing something that felt unattainable - a Michonne of the past. Maybe she was finally ready to admit that she hated being miserable all of the time. That she wanted to be able to feel joyous again.

A nagging voice in the back of her mind told her that she was still undeserving of happiness. After all the people she'd hurt, the things she'd done and hadn't done in her life, she wasn't even sure if karmic justice would allow her to have any sort of tangible happiness.

Michonne recognized that she was in a period of great transition, though. So close to passing a milestone that she could actually be proud of. She couldn't find it in herself to top her shoulders with the bevy of self-hatred and anxieties she carried around daily. Even if only for the night, Michonne wanted to recapture the lightness she'd felt sitting at Rick Grimes' kitchen table eating crappy canned soup. She took a deep, shaking breath, closed her eyes, and bathed herself in the kind words of her best friends. Flooded with warmth that had nothing to do with the heated summer air, Michonne smiled. It was toothy and wide.

"When did you idiots get so smart?" She asked the two women at her table jokingly.

"Probably when you started slacking off," Sasha answered.

* * *

Getting home early from a night out wasn't a challenge for sober people. Even though they'd stopped for gelato after leaving Pierre's, Michonne had made it home before 9. Her thoughts were on Rick, and the promise she'd made to call him earlier that day as soon as she walked in her door. A little overwhelmed by the excitement she felt at the prospect of talking to him again, she decided to decompress first.

She went through the process of washing up, taking off her makeup, changing into her pajamas, and making a cup of tea before she settled into bed with her phone in her hand. The phone could barely ring twice before he answered.

"Hey there," he spoke softly on the other end.

She closed her eyes at the timbre of his voice. Thick, deep, and honeyed those two words nestled deep into her skin and nearly made her shudder.

"How are you?" Michonne asked, fiddling with the frayed end of the blue throw blanket on her bed. "You feeling any better?"

"Right as rain. I think your presence healed me."

She couldn't tell if he was joking or not, but she chuckled anyway. "It was probably all that damn soup you ate."

Rick let out a low humming sound. "I ain't buyin' it, but I'll let you have this one."

"That's all I ask."

"So how was your night out? You're callin' pretty early. No Atlanta pretty boys caught your eye tonight?"

"Boy please," she snorted. "I went out to dinner with my two friends, got some dessert, then came home and called you."

Michonne heard him chuckle on the other line, her face heated.

"And I don't like pretty boys!"

"Oh no?"

She could hear the rustling of covers, it sounded like he was sitting up.

"Nope," Michonne replied, playfully holding back a further explanation.

"What's your type then?"

She bit down on her bottom lip. The sugar from the gelato and the warm feeling that she had carried throughout dinner made her feel playful. "I don't have a type. I like all kinds of men."

"Oh? So, I guess you could see yourself with someone like…" He trailed off, thinking. "Negan from the meetings then?"

"Negan? You mean that dude who stands up every meeting and talks for five minutes straight about how scarily obsessed he is with the wife who left him for his sister? That Negan?"

Rick barked out a laugh. "The very one."

"Hell no. I can see myself staying as far away from him as possible though."

"So, my point stands," he sounded smug, but it wasn't unattractive. "You do have a type."

"Fine," Michonne conceded with a smile in her voice. "If not liking obvious psychopaths means I have a type then yeah, I have a type."

"HA!"

"You are so damn goofy, Rick Grimes." She waited until he barked out another endearing laugh. "I'm sure you have a type too."

The question was used as a retaliation to his own against her, but it was also born out of a genuine curiosity. She wondered desperately what he would say. She knew Rick was attracted to her, that much was obvious. The way his eyes roamed her frame whenever he saw her. The way he spoke to her with a soft, barely concealed level of sexual intent she wasn't even sure he recognized in his own voice. His attraction to her wasn't necessarily flashy and over the top obvious, but it was easy for her to see. That didn't mean she didn't want to hear him admit it any less.

"You know what, I didn't think I had one before, but..." He spoke gently, like he was mulling every single word over in his head before he said it. "It's taken me upwards of 37 years to realize that I do have a type."

He left it at that and the longer she waited for him to continue, the more she realized he was waiting for her cue.

"So, what is it?" Michonne asked softly, teeth still digging into her lip. "What's your type?"

"You know what, Michonne. Maybe it's less of a type, and more of some newfound, singularly focused interests. All of a sudden, I found myself cravin' all kinds of sweet thangs when I normally prefer savory. I see one pair of long brown legs every time I close my eyes. Nothing feels as smooth and silky as the skin two specific shoulder blades. The sound of one soft voice is enough to make my day. Hell, I've come this damn close to takin' myself down to the nearest mental hospital to get checked out because I've dreamed about the same set of big brown eyes so many damn times."

Her heart stuttered. His words were so open and raw, and the tone of his voice left no room to interpret them as anything other than the absolute truth. Rick had been thinking of her the same way she'd thought about him. Constantly and with a fervor that felt crushingly large at times.

Michonne clenched her thighs together tightly as her panties flooded. His words made her gasp outwardly. She would have been embarrassed had she not been preoccupied with the rest of her body's reaction. She wanted desperately to do as she had done nearly every night the past month. Inch her fingers past her underwear and into her pussy. Michonne wanted to fuck herself right there with Rick on the other end of the phone. She wanted him to hear her shaking and whimpering. Stroking and rubbing and thrusting until she came loud enough for him to hear on the other end of the line. More than that, she wanted him there with her.

"Jesus, Rick," The words were the only two she knew how to say in the moment.

The man let out a low chuckle. His voice was even thicker than before. Michonne wondered if this was what he sounded like when he was overcome with lust and emotion. "You asked."

"I know," she conceded. "I just didn't think...I didn't think you were going to be that honest."

"I always want to be honest with you, Michonne." His sincerity sent another shiver through her. "I know that's the only way to get close to you. By showin' you respect and givin' you honesty."

"And that's what you want then? To be close to me?"

"Since the night I first talked to you in that basement. I thought I'd made that clear."

"I knew you were attracted to me, I knew you wanted to fuck me." She heard his sharp intake of breath at her words. It was maybe the crassest thing she'd ever said to him. It was still true, she didn't necessarily have the faculties to censor herself in the moment. "I didn't know there was anything more outside of that, that you wanted."

"Shit," Rick cursed. "I guess I didn't make that shit obvious enough. Would you still have made me stay away if I had?"

"Probably," Michonne answered truthfully. "I wasn't in a place to see it as the truth. Honestly, I don't know if I am now either."

"I think you are. There's no way you would have let me say all that a few weeks ago."

She placed a hand on her chest under her t-shirt, hoping that the pressure from her palm could calm her racing pulse. "Maybe I should have. It was...it was nice hearing it."

Michonne felt a little drunk. Not the type of drunk that happened after years of alcoholism - depressing and gut-churningly painful - either. She felt like she was a 16-year-old getting tipsy off of her first glass of champagne. Giddy and open and happy. Maybe it wa as dangerous thing to feel, but she didn't get the sense that it was wrong. It was almost freeing, to be unabashedly delighted again.

Rick cursed again. "I'm tryin' my damndest to respect your boundaries, but you're makin' it hard as hell for me right now, woman."

She knew what she should have said. Logic dictated that she should have bid Rick goodbye immediately, gone back to her routine, and forgotten that their eye-opening conversation had ever happened. Her brain told her that what she wanted was wrong, that she was nowhere near deserving of the kind of admiration he had shown her. She hadn't been wrong that night. There were still a lot of things she needed to work on for herself.

Did logic and reason have to fly in the face of wants completely, though? She wasn't sure about the ways in which she wanted Rick Grimes. Nor was she confident in her ability to have him in a way that was completely healthy. Her recent penchant for failing in her personal relationships hadn't been fixed yet. But Michonne wanted to take a plunge. Nothing headfirst, and not into waters too unfamiliar and icy to find her way out, but a plunge all the same. One that she hoped she could find her way out of if the waves proved to be too treacherous.

"I think my boundaries are changing, Rick. I meant what I told you that night, I did. And I still don't know if I'll ever be able to be truly happy again, but I need to start letting good things into my life. Maybe you can be one of those good things. At least, I hope you can."

The smile in his voice was evident as he spoke again. "I think we could be very good for each other, Michonne."

Her fingers brushed her lips as if she was trying to hide a smile from him that she knew he couldn't see. "This doesn't mean we're in a relationship, though. We're not...We can't be dating right now."

"Sure," Rick replied a little too lightly. "We can take it as slow as you want. A goddamn snails pace. Just as long as I get to have you in some way."

"Rick…" She chided with a smile. His phrasing made her just as nervous and smiley at the same time.

"And by have you, I mean spend time with you, of course."

"Of course."

Michonne swallowed harshly as they sat on the phone, listening to one another breathe. The silence wasn't necessarily awkward, but it was tense. Filled with uncertainties and anticipation, she knew that she was close to spilling over the edge. She wondered if Rick was there too.

"I'm goin' to let you go now, Michonne," his voice was deeper, a little less light than it had been previously. "I've got a lot to think about and I'm sure you do too. But I'll see you Monday evenin' right?"

"Monday," she said simply.

"Save me a seat then, right there next to you."


	8. Eight

**I promised two certain someone's (you know who you are) that this was going to drop LAST WEEK, then yesterday. But see...what had happened was…**

 **My muse can be a cruel bitch sometimes. Unfortunately, she demanded that this chapter be re-written three and a half different times. So, I'm definitely sorry that I made you guys wait two weeks for an update.**

 **I won't take up a ton of time writing nonsense up here. First, I want to thank all of you, as always, for telling me your thoughts, sharing this story, and for reading it at all. Secondly, I implore you, if you love the chapter, hate it, or feel "blah" about it, don't be afraid to let me know your thoughts.**

 **As always, Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Eight**

 _If you would let me give you pinky promise kisses  
Then I wouldn't have to scream your name atop of every roof in the city of my heart – Mitski – Once More to See You_

* * *

The process of making whiskey is a long and involved one. It starts with germinated barley undergoing a water soaking process for three full days. After the barley is turned into malt, it's combined with even more warm water to "mash" until it combines into one liquid free of soluble sugars. This process is done three times at varying temperatures. After the "mashing" process, a resulting liquid called "wort" is created. From there, the "wort" gets time to cool off and ferment - usually, this only takes about two days. Then begins the actual distillation process, where the liquid is funneled into large stills, then heated until an alcohol vapor is created. Traditional whiskey is usually distilled twice over before it's poured into large oak barrels to age and mature for a minimum of three years before being bottled and distributed.

Whiskey making is long and arduous and anyone in the business would tell you that it may be laborious, but that labor is ultimately born out of love. Scotch, bourbon, rye, malt, by the time he was 5-years-old Rick was well acquainted with every type of whiskey stocked on the shelves of Morton's Liquors in King County. When he was 10, his grandfather Joseph took him on a nearly 5-hour drive up to Lynchburg, Tennessee. Their first day there, he and the old man went to the Jack Daniel's distillery. The strong smell of harsh liquor hadn't been anything new to his young nose. But the giant copper-colored stills, the loud sound of machines working overtime, and the men who seemed to revel in the making of whiskey had been completely fascinating to him.

Rick wished he could say that he knew right then and there that he was going to open a distillery of his own someday. He didn't, though. It wouldn't be until almost twenty years later that he even considered it and about five years after that, that _Kingmaker Whiskey Co_. would open its doors of operation for the first time in 2010.

It had been almost nine years since they'd officially opened for business, and Rick and Daryl's small-town distillery had turned their special Georgia whiskey into one of the most popular brands in the country. His company was a success, a major one. Aside from Carl, Rick was almost positive it was the only thing in his life he hadn't fucked up completely. He loved his business, had nurtured it, bled and sweat and cried for it. So, what did it mean that a huge part of his sobriety meant staying as far away from it as possible?

It had been months since he'd set foot in the stilling warehouse on the outskirts of King County. Until he'd embarked on his most recent stint of sobriety, Rick had worked as the Master Distiller - overseeing the creation of every barrel of whiskey within the company as well as managing the entire liquor making team. More recently, someone else had taken over his job, and Rick had delegated himself to doing busy work at home. Looking over plans to expand the grounds, fostering contacts with local distributors for, approving new hires of higher-up staff, hell, even cataloging the backlog of less-urgent maintenance requests. He hated it. Every morning he woke up, had his shower and morning coffee before spending the next six to eight hours sitting at his dining room table looking over bullshit busy work that had been pawned off to him from other departments.

Daryl didn't handle anything in the day-to-day. The two co-founders had appointed an outside CEO, Andrea Craig, about a year after they opened. While he and Rick were both shareholding board members within the company, Daryl enjoyed the monetary fruits of _Kingmaker Whiskey Co._ by traveling around the country on his beloved bike and using his riches to invest in other businesses. When Rick had revealed his need to be away from the liquor making action, Daryl suggested that he "take some time off."

Rick had brushed him off immediately. He'd been working nearly every day of his life since he was 12-years-old. He couldn't even imagine what he would do with his days if labor of some kind wasn't being exploited from him. There was also the issue of his sobriety. He was already nearly boring himself to death, the work, mindless and shitty as it was, kept him busy. Too busy to be left with his own thoughts for too long and too busy to let himself lean too heavily on the cravings he couldn't seem to fully shake.

Rick's old assistant still worked in the distillery's office for the new Master Distiller, but a few times a week she sent him emails filled with his busy work. The entire process felt cold and impersonal but it seriously limited Rick's need to actually visit the place. It had been three months since he'd even stepped foot on their multi-acre plot of land turned business. Monday morning, when Daryl Dixon called him and told him he was in town then asked him to come to the distillery to see him in the same breath, Rick had half a mind to turn him down. He didn't though.

He could smell it as soon as he entered the parking lot. It was odd to describe the burning of ethanol as appealing, but he couldn't think of it any other way. The strong scent made Rick's tongue feel thick and dry. It was already warm outdoors, the hot sun unrelenting on his bare arms, but sweat began to bead along his hairline. Two parts of him raged, one wanting to leave and one wanting to enter the warehouse and drink in the smell even further. Rick swallowed and looked up at the modern glass building only a few yards away from the stilling warehouse. One booted foot in front of the other, he walked. He wasn't sure how long it took or who he spoke to on the way, but the next thing he knew he was in Daryl's unused office on the top floor of the building.

"How you doin' man?" His best friend grabbed him up in a hug and Rick breathed in heavy, consuming his leather vest and cologne to rid his nostrils of the scent of alcohol.

"Hey," he grunted back. "I've been good. How about you?"

Daryl pulled back but kept a grasp on Rick's broad shoulders for a few moments before he propped himself up on his desk. "You look good," he commented quietly. "Better than the last time I saw your ass."

"Oh," Rick chuckled. "Over a year ago you mean?"

"I'm a busy man, Grimes."

"Busy man my ass. You missed your godson's birthday, dick."

Daryl narrowed his eyes. "I sent him a gift!"

"And that reminds me, you can't send an 11-year-old a check for three thousand dollars."

To his credit, Daryl looked genuinely confused by Rick's statement. "Why the hell not? We would have killed for money like that when we were his age."

"And we would have blown it in days," Rick laughed. "Just like Carl would have done had Lori and I not let him buy a damn PlayStation and deposited the rest into a savings account he can't get to yet."

The man across from him made a rude noise from the back of his throat. "Next time I'll give him cash-in-hand and see what you boring assholes do about that."

Rick rolled his eyes, knowing his best friend wasn't bluffing. Rick had money, much, much more than he'd ever expected to have. By extension, Carl did too. He was a simple man and had no problem with Carl having a lot of the things he wanted. But he'd be damned if his boy grew up as some entitled little prick who didn't know the meaning of a dollar. Daryl, on the other hand, didn't seem to give a shit about that. He fully planned on intercepting any fistfuls of cash his best friend tried to hand his son, but he didn't care to share that.

Rick took a seat in a chair next to where Daryl was leaning on his desk. He leaned back in it, groaning quietly as the tight muscles in his back and shoulders stretched and released. Taking a deep breath in, he realized that the smell of ethanol was incredibly fain in the room. The interior of the building, though, smelled heavily of aged whiskey. Rick gripped the arms of the chair briefly and stopped the inhalation through his nose, deciding to breathe only through his mouth until he left.

"Why didn't you tell me you were coming home?" His voice was a little nasally when he spoke, but he couldn't find it in him to be embarrassed. "And why the hell did you have me come all the way down here?"

"I wasn't plannin' on being here," Daryl answered. "I had to talk with the lawyers about some thangs, I figured now was just as good a time as any."

Rick sat up a little straighter in his chair, the look on his face full of concern for his oldest friend. "The lawyers? You in some kind of trouble?"

"Nah," the shaggy-haired man shook his head back and forth. When he looked up at Rick again through his bangs, there was a small smile on his face, one Rick had never seen before. "I got married."

The loud, barking laugh that left Rick's throat couldn't be helped. He assumed it was a joke. Had to be. Daryl Dixon was notoriously allergic to commitment. Hadn't had a relationship that lasted longer four months his entire adult life. For him to suddenly come up married seemed laughably ridiculous.

Daryl wasn't laughing along with him though. He was staring at Rick intently. His partially covered brown eyes wide and imploring.

"Fuck…" Rick whispered out quietly. "You're serious."

"Yeah, man. I'm serious."

Rick threw himself back in his chair again, releasing a big breath and inhaling air. His nose hairs tingled. "Well, who is he?"

"His name is Jesus...Well, his real name is Paul, but everyone calls him Jesus."

His first instinct was to criticize a man who referred to himself as "Jesus" unironically. He didn't though, he sat silently and waited for his friend to continue.

"We met in Black Rock City, at Burnin' Man," Daryl continued. "He's got a bike too. We hung out for a few days and when it was over, rode up to Big Sur together."

"And somehow this lead to a marriage?"

Daryl nodded his head. "Just a few weeks later, we found a preacher and got married on a cliff overlookin' the ocean."

"How long ago was that exactly?"

His best friend had the audacity to look a little sheepish. "About a year ago."

Rick raised his eyebrows. "A year ago?"

"Yeah, the ceremony was in August."

Rick was stunned into silence. The hurt that welled up in his chest was strong and immediate. He and Daryl had been friends since they were six. They'd nursed each other through all kinds of growing pains and struggles. Rick had been the first, and only, person Daryl came out to for years. When his asshole father and brother had disowned him, the shaggy-haired man had taken up permanent residence on the floor of Rick's childhood bedroom for the entirety of their senior year of high school. They were adults, with their own lives, and their own secrets. Rick didn't need to be privy of every part of Daryl's life, just like there were many things he wasn't too keen to share immediately. But knowing that his friend had kept something as important as marriage from him was equal parts troubling and hurtful.

He couldn't even find it in himself to suck up his emotions and pretend like everything was alright. "Any reason you kept it from me?"

Daryl looked away, his stance shifting a bit from his perch. "I never thought I'd get married, Rick. You know that. And when I did it, I wasn't sure if it was gon' last. I didn't want to drag you into it if it didn't end up workin' out."

"Yeah, okay," Rick swallowed. He understood the reasoning, but that didn't make the news any easier to bear. "And now you're sure it's the real deal?"

"I know it is."

"So, when am I goin' to get to meet the guy?"

"We'll be in town until Sunday, then we're headin' off to Wyoming to check out a horse ranch. We're goin' to be havin' a little dinner at the barn on Friday. I want you to come and bring Carl."

Rick nodded. "Yeah, we can do that."

Daryl straightened himself up and Rick stood too. The two men stood chest to chest, the weight of their relationship hanging between them. "Rick, I'm sorry. This whole thang was more about me than it was about you. I didn't want you to think I was crazy or be disappointed in me."

"Jesus, Dixon," Rick laughed. "I feel like I've spent years disappointin' you. Your secret marriage to a man named Jesus ain't even a blip on my radar."

It was a lie, Rick knew it, Daryl probably knew it too. He also knew that nothing would keep him from supporting his best friend just as the man had done with him for so long. The hurt, just like the scent of newly stilled Georgia whiskey permeating the air around them, would have to be ignored.

* * *

Rick got to the First Baptist Church of Madison earlier much earlier than usual. The evening sun was only just beginning to settle behind the clouds and the sky was a beautiful, dusky orange color. He parked right next to the spot Michonne normally took. Dead center to the entrance of the church. He didn't expect the doors to be open yet and had no desire to sit inside the truck. Grabbing his keys, a bottle of water, and an old worn copy of _East of Eden_ by John Steinbeck, Rick got out of the car and climbed into the bed of his truck. Slender legs dangling over the edge as more and more cars filled the parking lot, 15 minutes later, his reading was interrupted when he noticed Michonne's clean, white sedan pulling into the parking space next to him.

The sun had fallen even further, but her beauty was just as blinding as its rays would have been in the middle of the day. She was dressed a little more casually than usual. A crisp white t-shirt that read her bakery's name, a pair of tight black skinny jeans, and clean white sneakers. Her long locs were piled up on top of her head with a black and white checkered scarf tied around them. It was almost unbelievable, how beautiful she managed to look at the most ordinary of times.

"Hey," she smiled at him after pressing the automatic lock on her key fob and coming over to stand in front of where he sat.

"Hey there," Rick smiled back. He wanted to spread his legs a little farther apart and compel her to come stand between them. To feel her warm body pressed against his as the late summer breeze swirled around them. "How are you?"

"I'm alright," she said. "I thought I was supposed to save you a seat. What are you doing out here?"

Rick raised up the opened book in his hands. "Got carried away."

Gently, Michonne took the book out of his hands, Rick biting the inside of his cheek as their fingers brushed ever so slightly. She kept her small, slender thumb in place to keep the page as she flipped it closed and read the title. "Is it any good? I haven't read any Steinbeck since _Of Mice and Men_ in high school. I'm more of an Octavia Butler and Alice Walker kind of girl."

"It's pretty good," Rick took the book as she handed it back to him, sitting it on the bed of his truck. "One of my favorites. Not as good as _Kindred_ though."

They shared a small intimate smile before Rick looked over and noticed a large portion of their AA group congregated by the front entrance of the church. "Let's go see what's goin' on over there."

It took him seconds to stash the book and water in the front of his truck. His bare arm constantly brushing against Michonne's as they took strides across the parking lot. Neither of them got a chance to inquire about the small ruckus before the door opened. A small, older white woman peeked her head out front. "Sorry y'all," her voice was soft and frail, Rick had to strain to hear her. "The meetin' for today has been cancelled. Hershel had some personal family business come up and we don't have anyone who's…" she coughed. "Well equipped to take over the meetin' for the night."

"What about later in the week?" One of the men standing in front of her asked. "Should we even bother coming back?"

"As far as we know, Hershel should be back to host Friday's meetin'. If not, we'll post about it on the church's Facebook page beforehand. Now, if you'll excuse me I have some work to get back to. Y'all have a blessed night now."

Slowly, the crowd began to separate. Each person scattering back to their cars with malcontented grumbles falling from their lips. Rick turned to look at Michonne and noticed her furrowing her brows. He thought back to the conversation they'd had Saturday night. The one where she'd agreed to explore some type of...something with him. The meeting was canceled, and as disappointing as that was, Rick wanted to use it as an opportunity to take her up on her promise.

"Come get dinner with me," It wasn't a question, but both of them knew that Michonne had ample room to deny him. "I know a place around here with a burger that will knock your drawers off."

"My drawers?" She asked with a smirk.

"Right off."

Michonne laughed, a sweet low sound before she nodded her head. "Okay, sure. I'm hungry anyway. I'll just follow you there in my car I guess?"

"I'll take us and bring you back here after, save you some gas."

"You just love getting me in your truck, Grimes." She joked as she started walking towards the large black vehicle.

"What can I say, sweet thang. You were made for my passenger seat."

He couldn't stop the endearment from slipping out along with his bold statement. It had been on the tip of his tongue for weeks and it felt good as hell to finally let it out. Her back to him, Rick noticed her pause for a beat when she heard it. He half expected her to turn around to say something clever, but she didn't. She just flashed him a small smile over her shoulder before she continued the short distance to Rick's truck.

Even nearing 5-years-old _Selma's_ was the newest restaurant in Madison. Diner style and situated in a train car, it was a favorite among locals. Rick had been there twice before, both times after meetings at First Baptist. The food was hearty, the service was good, and it lacked any and all pretension. The restaurant was relatively full when Rick and Michonne walked in. Aside from the numerous curious stares they were treated to upon arrival, they were seated relatively quickly in the booth Michonne requested.

Their teenage waitress, clad in cuffed greaser-style jeans and a black t-shirt brought their drinks and took their orders before disappearing, leaving them to stare alternatively at their menus and one another.

"Did you have a good day?" Michonne asked, her eyes still on the laminated paper in her hand.

"Yeah, it was alright," Rick replied, gaze focused on her. "I went by the office."

She looked up at him with those big, chocolatey eyes. "The distillery? How was that?"

Rick's first instinct was to downplay the issues he'd had earlier in the day. Sanitize his fears so as not to trouble her. Then, he remembered who he was sitting across from. Michonne was just about the only person he knew who could intimately understand the things he'd felt. He wanted to share those feelings with her, needed to even.

"You ever been to a distillery?"

She shook her head no.

"Well you can smell the alcohol as soon as you drive up," he continued. "And it doesn't go away. The closer you get, that alcohol starts smellin' like real whiskey. Once you're in the building, you might as well be staring straight down into a glass of the shit."

Michonne's eyes widened at the realization. "That sounds dangerous, Rick. Did you have to actually see any of it?"

"No, but somehow that made thangs even worse because I wanted to. So damn bad. And it was weird because I almost didn't recognize the feelin'."

"I feel that," she said, putting her menu down on the table. "It's like, sometimes you can forget about it. You can go hours or days without even thinking about drinking, then all of a sudden you're in the grocery store looking at some Maker's Mark and your mouth is watering like you haven't eaten a good meal in days."

Rick took a sip of his Coke. "It was exactly like that. Once I left, it the cravin' went away but I can't stop thinkin' about it. About how easy it would have been for me to…"

"Hey," Michonne interrupted him, reaching across the table to take his hand in hers and squeeze delicately. Rick closed his eyes at the feeling of her soft digits on his. "You didn't though, and that's the only thing that matters. That's something you can be proud of, Rick."

He shook his head. "I don't know…"

"It is. Trust me, learning how to accept and feel proud of personal progress is something I've been working on perfecting lately."

He couldn't help but smile at her. "How's that comin' along for you, exactly?"

Michonne rolled her eyes playfully, pulling her hand back much to Rick's regret. "It's not so easy to learn new things as an adult, Rick. Everybody knows that."

Just like that, she'd succeeded in making him feel better. She hadn't patronized him, pitied him, or given him useless advice. She'd only listened and told him what she knew. She was right too. He sure as hell didn't feel pride in his lack of relapse earlier that day, but at least he recognized that he should have - that his self-control in the wake of such temptation was a major step in the right direction.

"What about you?" He asked, breaking their silence. "What did you get up to today?"

"It wasn't nearly as exciting as yours. But I've been working on a recipe for a new chocolate cake that I feel like is finally ready to be introduced to our customers."

Rick ran in tongue over his pinks lips in an outwardly lascivious manner. He couldn't help but smirk as he saw Michonne's breathing deepen a bit as she watched the slick slide of it. "Chocolate cake, you say?"

"Yeah," her voice was a little shaky. "We've been using my same recipe since we opened. I feel like it's time for a change."

"What's so different about this new one then? Isn't all chocolate cake pretty much the same?"

Her eyes widened in offense. "No, Rick all chocolate cake is _not_ the same. They all have their very own flavor profiles depending on the ingredients you use."

She became a little more passionate than normal when she spoke about her work. Rick wanted to keep the energy alive. "So, what's so special about your new one?"

"I'm not telling you all my secrets, Rick Grimes. But, long story short, it combines chocolate, coffee, and hazelnuts. It's extra decadent."

"Damn…"

"Yeah…" Michonne gushed back.

Rick caught her eyes from across the table. "I might have to make another drive down to Atlanta to get a slice or two of your chocolate cake."

She caught the innuendo and played along. "Maybe I'll make a special house call and bring some to you."

Their conversation was paused by their waitress bringing two plates of steaming burgers and fries to them. Both of them dug in immediately, Rick's jeans tightening around his dick as his ears were filled with the sounds of Michonne's low moans.

"Holy shit."

He nodded, his own mouth full of food.

"This may be the best burger I've ever had," she continued.

"I know," Rick agreed. "It's juicy as hell."

"Shiiiit," she took another large bite, so big that it made Rick laugh. "We have to come back here."

"I'll bring you anytime you want, sweet thang."

Michonne didn't seem so keen to let the endearment slide twice. Immediately, Rick's hackles raised, afraid that he had pushed a little too far.

"You and that nickname," she said softly. "Where did that even come from?"

"You're a sweet little thang who makes sweet little thangs," he told her. "It fits."

Her eyes and lips widened. "I am not a sweet little 'thang'."

"Yeah you are, you may not want to admit it, but you are. Sweet as goddamn cherry pie and all but tiny, Michonne Clement."

Michonne swallowed harshly and popped a fry in her mouth, chewing slowly and silently. "I don't think anyone has called me sweet since I was a little girl."

"Well, they must not have been seein' you clearly, because you are."

Her eyes were bright as she stared at him from across the table. "How do you always do that?"

"Do what?" He asked, genuinely confused.

"Make me feel..." She paused. "Make me forget that I'm not supposed to be rushing my feelings for you."

It was one of the rawest, most honest things she'd ever said to him and Rick had to flex his hands to keep from reaching out and drawing her into him.

"I'm not tryin' to make you forget yourself, Michonne. I just don't want you to doubt the fact that my feelings for you have been here for a while and they ain't goin' nowhere. I ain't goin' nowhere."

She let out a little curse under her breath. It was quiet, but Rick caught it. "You're too damn slick for your own good."

"Not slick, just honest."

She rolled her eyes at him again. "Keep playing, we'll see if I ever grace you with my company over dinner again."

Rick perked up, suddenly recognizing his next chance to take her out. "Speaking of. How about you join me this Friday?"

"Join you where?"

He reddened a bit and rubbed his hand on the back of his neck to calm himself down. "My best friend is havin' a little get together over. Just a few friends, nothin' special. But I want you to come. I know Carl would love it."

"I don't know, Rick…"

"I promise it's not a big deal," he was lying without remorse. "Very casual. Now, you don't have to come if you don't want to, but I figured I'd extend the offer."

She kept her eyes on him, narrowing briefly before she took a long, drawn out sip of her pink lemonade. "Fine," she answered finally, causing Rick to release a breath he didn't know he was holding in. "But only because I want to see cute little Carl again."

"You know what, I ain't even mad at that."


	9. Nine

***Comes out of hiding* Hey guys! It's been…over a month I think. Which is ridiculous, I know, I know. But in my admittedly flimsy defense, November kicked my ass. I was trying to finish an original novel for NaNoWriMo. I was swamped with work. My social life was demanding. And on top of that, I had some newly discovered thirst for Michael B. Jordan to work through. So, as you can see, I was really going through it.**

 **BUT, the wait is over. I'm back with a new chapter that hopefully makes up for my absence. I'm thinking December is going to be a little slower so I'm going to try to update as much as I can.**

 **As always, thank you so much for your support. Your kind words and not-so-gentle nudging helped me get this one out. I love you all and I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

 **Nine**

And I know I've kissed you before, but  
I didn't do it right  
Can I try again, try again, try again – Mitski – Pink in the Night

* * *

"Do you remember where it is?" Michonne asked, shoulder holding her phone up to her ear as she ruffled through her jewelry box.

Rick chuckled on the other line, his voice a little fuzzy when he spoke. "Yes, Michonne, 1496 Green Meadow Ave, the townhouse with the blue mailbox, right?"

"Right?" She fussed. "But I know finding my street in the complex can be a little difficult, I just want to make sure-"

"I'm pulling up now," Rick interrupted her. "I'm right behind your little car."

"Shit," Michonne huffed, grabbing the necklace she was looking for out of the box and rushing down the stairs to get the door.

Rick was chuckling as he ambled up her driveway. She couldn't help but bite down on her bottom lip as she took him in. He wasn't necessarily dressed dramatically different from how he usually was, but Michonne could tell he'd put some extra effort into getting ready. The black jeans he wore looked fresh and new, clinging perfectly to his strong legs. Tucked into them was a crisp white button-down shirt, a couple of buttons under the collar opened up. Rick, as always, had forgone any frills, he completed his look with a clean pair of black cowboy boots, an unassuming belt, and his father's watch. He looked good in his clothes, great even, but with his curls pushed back away from his face and his salt and pepper beard sheared close to his jaws, Michonne struggled to stay standing.

"Hey there, sweet thang," he greeted as he reached her doorstep, leaning in to wrap her up in his strong arms for a short hug. She breathed in his clean, masculine scent, closing her eyes briefly. "You're lookin' mighty fine tonight. Even more so than usual."

Michonne had spent the week grilling Rick on the dress code for the dinner they were attending. He'd described the entire event in the most nonchalant terms he could find. Constantly telling her that it was just a few friends getting together and saying that it was "nothin' fancy." While she believed him, his platitudes hadn't given her any ideas as to what type of clothes would be appropriate. She'd been lost until she'd taken the initiative to look the place up herself. "The Barn" boasted itself as King County's chicest restaurant. A real-life barn turned bistro, it was apparently used as a venue for all types of gatherings from wedding receptions to small anniversary dinners to graduation parties. Michonne thought it was a little odd that they'd chosen the place for such a "casual" gathering, but she figured it was probably the only real option in a town as small as King County.

She'd decided to go with something similar to what she'd have worn to a nice BBQ cookout. Freshly showered and with smooth brown skin glistening, Michonne wore a white romper with thin black stripes spanning the entire garment vertically. The romper was sleeveless with short ruffles along the shoulders. Dipping in the front to reveal a tasteful hint of cleavage, it tied in a long, relaxed bow along her small waist and fell a few inches above her knees. Her long locs flowed freely past her shoulders and pushed behind her ears to show medium sized hoops. She finished the outfit off with thick-heeled white sandals and small white purse with a long shoulder strap.

Michonne spared a glance down her body at his comment, smoothing out a couple of invisible wrinkles. "Thank you, Rick. You...You look handsome too. I like the new boots."

"Oh yeah?" He asked, leaning back on his heels with a small smile across his pink lips.

"Yeah," Michonne nodded eagerly. "They're very...Woody from _Toy Story_."

Rick let out a playful growl before he reached out to tug one of her locs in retaliation. "You better watch out, Michonne. You might hurt my poor feelings jokin' around on me like that."

She took a second to turn around and close her front door, making sure it was locked before she turned back to him with a smirk. "I only do it because I know you can take it."

He reached out to clasp her hand, interlocking their fingers. "You're right, I can take anything you've got to give, sweet thing."

Michonne bit down on her bottom lip, unable to make her eyes stray from Rick's. It was well before sunset, the sky still pretty, blue, and all lit up. He seemed illuminated before her, his skin pink and healthy and his eyes endless and happy. She was sure she could have looked at him forever and never get tired of seeing his visage. But they had other things to get to, things that Rick reluctantly reminded her of.

"We better go," he said, tugging her towards his truck. "It's a bit of a drive back to King County."

Their ride to the small Georgia town lasted a little under an hour and a half thanks to rush hour traffic. As Rick's large black truck ambled out of the city and down the highway, Michonne waited to feel some form of regret or discomfort. She never did. Their conversation strayed from their favorite Motown deep cut to a playful discussion about a Stanley Kubrick conspiracy theory. She laughed, debated, rolled her eyes plenty, but she never had to grip her seat to ease her anxiety or push down nausea born out of regret.

Farther into King County, Rick pulled into a relatively new but small housing development. Perfectly laid black tar roads and neatly manicured lawns lead the way until he pulled up on the curb of a nice two-story traditional style home. It was obviously where Carl lived with Rick's ex-wife. Michonne wondered if Rick had lived in the house at one point too. For some reason, she couldn't imagine him there. After having seen his current home, she thought it fit him perfectly. Simplistic and warm. The house before her could almost be classified as a McMansion and picturing him shuffling around inside in just his sweatpants was just as laughable as it was uncomfortable for her. He left the car with a reassuring smile and reappeared only a couple minutes later with Carl running excitedly next to him.

"Hey, Michonne," the boy greeted as he buckled himself into the backseat.

She turned around in her seat to greet him with her smile. "Hey, Carl. You excited for tonight?"

Carl nodded his head, his long brown hair shifting with the movement. "Yeah, I'm excited to see my uncle Daryl again," Carl paused, then looked over at Rick. "Mom said he got married while he was gone. Is that true? Why didn't we go?"

Michonne looked over a Rick too, her eyes widening in surprise at the awkward question. Rick went a little red in the cheeks and neck before he addressed his son.

"Uh, uncle Daryl didn't really invite anybody, bud. He said it was something he needed to do on his own," Rick paused then spared a quick glance at Michonne. She didn't even have time to decipher the slightly apologetic look in his eye before he continued. "But we're celebrating tonight. Daryl is having us all meet at The Barn so we can meet his new husband."

Carl seemed to accept the explanation easily, replying with "cool" before his attention turned to his phone. Michonne, on the other hand, was much less calm. In an effort not to make a scene in front of the boy in the backseat she shot Rick a scalding look before pinching the bridge of her nose.

She'd known that she would be meeting some of Rick's friends at the dinner. And as terrifying as that was, she'd been comforted by the fact that it was a relatively pressure-free situation. Finding out that it was actually a de-facto wedding reception for Rick's best friend changed everything. What place did she have showing up to such an intimate gathering between loved ones as the woman Rick Grimes was kind of - sort of dating?

This was big, and she knew it. You didn't bring someone to a wedding celebration unless you were serious about them. She'd told Rick that she was willing to give the two of them a try and she hadn't been lying - not in the slightest. But when she'd agreed to try, she'd been of the impression that it would go slowly. Sitting there, in the passenger side seat of his truck, she became fully aware that this outing would take them from slow to...well, she wasn't exactly sure, but she knew it couldn't be classified as anything close to slow.

Neither she or Rick said anything to each other as he drove. Michonne was too busy trying to take stock of the conflicting emotions running through her head. A part of her was terrified at the thought that she was about to meet some very important people in Rick's life at a very important event. Another part was blisteringly angry at him for throwing her into it without warning. The last part, small and quiet, tucked behind the other two, was a bit warmed that he was so eager to have her in the mix so early.

Thoughts and feelings swirling, Michonne barely had a handle on them by the time they pulled into a gravel parking lot in front of a large red barn. Even from the car it was easy to see the charm of the place. None of the pictures had done the place justice. Beautifully painted, with thick framed windows along the top, and a front covered in white fairy lights, it looked like something out of a country fairytale.

Staring at the large structure in silent awe, she briefly heard Rick to tell Carl to run along ahead of them. Then, seconds later, the man was at her door, opening it up and standing before her with a sheepish look on his face.

"Mich-" she held up a hand, stopping him before he could get her name out fully.

Aside from the fact that Rick had hidden the truth from her, she knew that things were going to be changed between them afterward. It wasn't just dinner with friends, it meant something. Even if Rick didn't fully know what he was doing or want to acknowledge it, she knew. Michonne understood that he fully intended to hold her to her word and try to make something happen between them. She wanted to stay mad, to rage, to refuse to get out of the car, to throw insults and harsh words at the silent man standing in front of her. She couldn't though, he'd tried to pull a ridiculous stunt, and she was definitely going to take him to task for omitting the truth later, but she wouldn't cause a scene and bail on him. And as nervous as she was, she realized that she didn't want to.

"Rick let's," she stopped to clear her throat when the words came out shaky. "Let's just enjoy this dinner first. We'll talk about the fact that you lied to me about it later."

Rick's eyes widened as if he was only just realizing what he'd done. She could see the panic filling him from a mile away. "Hold on now, I didn't mean to-"

Michonne cut him off again with a small smile that she hoped comforted him. She had no plans to end their friendship over his indiscretion, but she wasn't letting him off scot-free. "Later, Rick. I'll read you the riot act after we're both full."

He nodded and helped her down and out of the truck. Then, he paused and turned to her as she stood before him. "So, I meant to tell you this earlier but…" he trailed off, shaking his head. "My friends ain't sober, there's definitely going to be some liquor flowin' in there. If you get uncomfortable, just let me know okay? We can leave whenever you want."

Michonne reached out and rested a soft hand on his shoulder. "Sure," she nodded. "As long as you do the same."

"I can live with that."

Rick reached up, placing his hand on top of the one she had touching him. Connected by skin, they stood quietly for a few beats, just staring at one another. He pulled away first, tucking his keys into his pocket before leading her towards the entrance of the restaurant.

They walked into The Barn hand in hand. Michonne's heart thudded fast behind her ribcage as the perky young hostess lead them into a separated back room. She could hear the low, steady murmur of voices more and more as they neared the entrance. She swallowed a bit as she spotted the group of people sat around a long, large buffet style dining table. There were about twelve or thirteen people seated around the table conversing amongst themselves. Michonne spotted Carl at the center of the table on the side nearest the door. He was chatting excitedly with a man with long brown hair dressed in a black button down and a black motorcycle vest. Next to him stood another man, one with even longer brown hair, a white button down, and a leather jacket. The one speaking to Carl looked up at her and Rick, his eyes widening as he laid eyes on her. Within seconds all three of them made their way over.

The man in the motorcycle vest shared a small smile with Rick before greeting them. "Rick," he said, his voice gravelly. "This is Jesus, my husband. Jesus, this is Rick Grimes, my best friend."

His accent was slightly similar to Rick's but somehow, a little less refined. It only made the differences between the two men a little starker.

"Hey man," Rick said, his voice so full of emotion that it made Michonne furrow her brows in concern. "Good to meet you," He and Jesus exchanged a heartfelt handshake before Rick brought him in for a hug.

Once they pulled away, Rick placed a warm hand at the small of Michonne's back. "Michonne, this is Daryl Dixon. Some asshole I've known since I was barely knee high," she flashed a smile at Daryl, who was looking at Rick with a quiet fondness. "Daryl, this is," Rick looked at her, "this is my...Michonne."

"Your, Michonne?" the man in front of them put extra emphasis on the possessive word.

"Yes," Rick said simply.

"Well alright then," Daryl said with a smile before he opened his arms, silently asking Michonne for a hug. She wasn't sure what compelled her to do it, but she leaned in and wrapped her arms around him. It only lasted for seconds, but it succeeded in making her feel more comfortable. It was childish and maybe a bit insecure sounding, but knowing that Rick's best friend approved her in some fashion made her significantly less anxious.

"Everybody shut the fuck up," Daryl shouted out as soon as they pulled away from each other. She heard Carl giggle next to her. "Rick is here, and he's brought his Michonne. Now we can finally get this shit started!"

Daryl had saved her, Rick, and Carl seats at the center of the table on the other side of them. Michonne wedged herself between the boy and his father, taking a sip of the water that sat near her plate as soon as she got comfortable in her chair.

The first portion of the dinner involved quite a bit of fan fair. Everyone around the table began introducing themselves excitedly. In the middle of a story about Rick and Daryl pantsing a bully in high school, two waiters entered the room and took the individual orders of everyone at the table. The raised talking voices and jovial laughter of everyone seated around her probably should have been nerve-wracking or annoying. Instead, the noise comforted her. Seeing so many people who obviously cared about one another seated around one table enjoying themselves filled her with something that felt an awful lot like warmth.

After she placed her order, the conversation flowed surprisingly well. She made comfortable small talk with Daryl and his new husband, joked with Rick, and had a few rounds of hangman with Carl on a disposable dinner napkin. It wasn't until she took her first bite of the fried chicken sandwich she'd ordered that the blonde woman, who'd introduced herself as Jessie earlier, sitting across the table from Rick spoke to her.

"So, Michonne, how did you and Rick meet?" She asked perkily, continuing before Michonne could answer. "We've known each other for forever, I went to middle and high school with him and Daryl and a few of the people here. We used to be really close."

Michonne spared a glance at Rick, noting that he had one of his eyebrows raised. She presumed Jessie was lying about their closeness, but she had no interest in bringing it up. Instead, Michonne thought back to the question the blonde had asked. She wasn't quite sure how to answer. She wanted to lie. To say that she and Rick had met at her bakery or at the gym. She didn't have time to think up something simple and believable before Rick gave an answer of his own.

"We met in Alcoholics Anonymous," he said, voice full of something that wasn't necessarily confidence but was far from shame. It was the only explanation he gave before he dug into his pork chop.

She spared a glance at Jessie, noting the shock on her face. Michonne chose to ignore it, picking up her sandwich and gearing up to take another bite of the crispy, succulent chicken breast. She had to physically hold back a groan when Jessie spoke again.

"S-so," she stuttered out. "So, you're...uh...you're an alcoholic too then? Like Rick?"

"Jesus, Jess," Michonne was once again interrupted. This time by Aaron, a man sitting on the other side of Rick. "You sure know how to bring down a party huh?"

Jessie let out a nervous giggle, looking down at her plate. For her part, the woman did look genuinely ashamed. Almost as if it hadn't even occurred to her that asking a question like that so bluntly to someone you'd just met might be frowned upon. Still, Michonne had no intention of comforting her for her faux pas.

"Yeah," Michonne spoke out. "I am an alcoholic. One in recovery. Just like Rick."

At her answer, Rick reached up, grasping the hand she had resting on top of the table. He gave her a squeeze and instead of moving, stayed there, causing Michonne to shoot him a warm smile.

"Just like me," he said loud enough for both her and Jessie to hear.

The rest of dinner passed went on relatively well. After her misstep, Jessie stayed to herself, conversing with the boyfriend who sat next to her. Michonne couldn't help but take note of the small looks she shot Rick's way every once in a while. He barely spared her another glance though, something Michonne felt bad about secretly enjoying.

Once everyone had finished the cake Daryl had brought, she noticed Jesus signaling for everyone at the table to settle down. Michonne watched on in amusement as the two men's silent argument ended with Daryl letting out a small groan and standing up from the table, wine glass in hand. He rolled his eyes as all eyes moved to him.

"Now y'all know I ain't so good with words," he drew a round of chuckles. "Hell, this might be the most I've spoken in weeks. But I wanted to thank everybody for comin' out tonight. Aaron and Eric made took time away from their new baby girl. Andrea managed to escape from her geriatric sugar daddy for the night." The woman in question gave Daryl the middle finger in response. "And Rick found it in himself to make it, even though I was a shitty friend by keeping this shit from him for so long."

Daryl and Rick looked at one another from across the table. In their eyes held all the love two brothers could have.

"Ricky, even though I had to give everybody grape juice instead of liquor for your sake tonight, I want to thank you for being here. You're my best friend. The one who supported me when no one else did. The one who made sure that I didn't have to spend my life hiding under cars for a livin'. I know I was wrong for keepin' you in the dark, but you're still my brother, and I want to thank you for supporting me once again."

Rick granted Daryl a grin and a nod as if silently offering the other man his forgiveness.

"Good," Daryl said with a laugh. "You'll be the first one I tell the next time I get married, I swear." The man jokingly feigned pain as his husband reached up and pinched him hard on the thigh. "Well, now that that's done, it's time for you motherfuckers to leave. We only booked the room for two hours."

Michonne heard Carl laugh raucously next to her at the curse. Feeling almost gleeful at the open display of love being shown, she reached out and put an arm around the boy's shoulders. "What are you laughing at?"

"Nothin'," he said, trying to damper his chuckles.

"That's the second time tonight you've heard somebody cursing. I think your dad and Daryl are a bad influence on you."

"No!" Carl insisted, his face so serious that it made Michonne let out a laugh of her own.

"Well, you'd better not let your parents hear you repeating any of the words your bad uncle Daryl and dad said tonight," she said.

Carl smiled up at her. "I already know to keep my cussin' at school, Michonne. Don't worry."

The bark of laughter she let out would have disturbed the peace had the room not already been set alive with voices.

Rick, Carl, and Michonne were the last guests to leave. Walking out to their car with Daryl and Jesus as the 11-year-old and Daryl's new husband talked about Captain America's fate post Infinity War 2.

"So how long are you in town for?" Rick asked Daryl as they neared Rick's big truck.

"A few weeks," Daryl said. "We're goin' to be headin' out to Portland for a little while after that."

"But we're coming back," Jesus voiced. "I'm finding that I really enjoy King County. I'm trying to convince Daryl to settle down here, at least part time."

"I'm thinkin' on it," Daryl told Rick.

"Yes!" Carl said, bouncing a bit on his heels.

"Well good," Rick shoved his hands in his front pockets. "We can get together sometime this week, hang around, see if I can convince you to settle your ass down for a bit."

The two men shared a hug, prompting everyone else to commence their goodbyes. When he got to her, Daryl drew her into another embrace. "It was nice meetin' you, Rick's Michonne."

She chuckled. "You too, Daryl. You throw a great party."

He pulled away. "I hope he can get you to stick around so you can see how wild shit can really get around here."

Daryl and Jesus pulled off before them, riding into the night on Daryl's motorcycle. Carl fell asleep minutes after they pulled out of the parking lot. His light snores echoing through the quiet truck as Rick drove him home.

The father refused to wake him up as they pulled up outside of his ex-wife's home. Instead, he plucked Carl up out of his seat and carried him up the driveway. Michonne swallowed harshly at the visual. Rick was so gentle with Carl. providing firm guidance but never failing to show his love at every possible moment. As beautiful as it was, it was also heartbreaking at the same time. The relationship between a parent and a child was probably never something she'd have again. She turned up the radio, choosing an old R&B station and using the music to drown out her thoughts.

Rick came out before the first song ended, running down the driveway and hopping into the truck. "You ready?"

"Yeah," she said softly.

He waited until they were on the highway to speak again. "So, you had a good time tonight then?"

"Yeah, your friends are great. I can see that you really love each other."

Rick nodded. "We do. Even if I've been a shitty friend, everybody in that room has shown me support at one point or another."

"It's good that you have that. As much as we never want to admit it, recovery without someone, somewhere there to back you up is probably almost impossible."

"I don't ever want to face that shit," he replied.

Rick turned up the radio in excitement as an old Al Green song started playing on the radio. She smiled softly, as the man sung about Love & Happiness. Al's voice, Rick's strong, quiet presence, and the smoothness of the truck's tires on asphalt lulled her to sleep. More than an hour later, she was woken up by Rick's soft, warm hand touching her cheek, his thumb stroking along the space underneath her eye. "We're here, sweet thing. Let's get you up to bed."

Like every other time she'd been in a car with him, he came around and retrieved her from the passenger side. With an arm around her waist, Rick escorted her to her door. He stood quietly behind her as she pushed in her key to let herself in.

"Well," he started, running a tongue over his lips. "I'm glad you had fun, Michonne. Really. I just wanted to thank you for comin' with me tonight. I know you were a little iffy about it."

"I was serious when I told you I had a good time, Rick. It was one of the best nights I've had in a long time. So thank _you_ for inviting me."

"I'd invite you to watch paint dry if I thought it'd make you smile, Michonne."

It was Michonne's turn to lick her lips. There he went again, making her swoon without even trying. Rick Grimes was arresting on every level. He was trouble of the best kind and Michonne wasn't sure how long she could continue holding him at arm's length. Were she being honest with herself, she wasn't even sure she wanted to anymore.

She reached down and picked up Rick's hand, glancing at the time on the watch he wore before letting the appendage drop back down to his side. "It's late, probably too late to make that long drive back to King County," She looked him from under her eyelashes. "Why don't you stay, just for the night. I'm too tired to ream into you tonight anyway, and I want you face to face when I do that." She wanted to blame the question on her being half sleep and in a delirium of happiness, but in the moment, she physically couldn't stop the words that flowed from her mouth.

Rick seemed unwilling to wait long enough for her to change her mind, letting out a simple "absolutely," before she led them both inside.

She completely bypassed the couch and the downstairs bathroom and led Rick upstairs and into her bedroom. She quietly instructed him to make himself comfortable while she got herself ready for bed. Michonne stalled for a bit, taking extra pains to remove her makeup and tie her night scarf on _just_ right. Instead of her usual t-shirt and panties, she dressed in a pink silk pajama set with shorts and a long-sleeved button-down shirt. Nearly 30 minutes after she left him, she walked out of her en-suit.

Her heart jumped into her throat as she saw him sitting on her bed, his legs strewn out in front of him as he rested on top of the covers. Shoes off, button-up shirt laid across the chair next to the bed, he wore his jeans and a threadbare white t-shirt. The muscles in his strong arms flexed a bit as he crossed them over his broad chest. He was gorgeous, unbelievably so. He looked so relaxed and at ease in her bed that she couldn't even dwell on the fact that he was sitting in Mike's old spot.

Michonne was silent as she padded over to be near him. She raised her duvet, tucking herself in next to him. She spent a little time smoothing out the covers in her lap and trying to still her thumping heart. Then, slowly, she looked at Rick only to find him staring right back. His blue eyes were bright and alert but also a little hooded. She wondered briefly whether or not it was due to him being sleepy or him desiring her.

It was the latter she wanted. So badly, so desperately and fully that it caused her to reach out to him. Her fingers found his stubble and she closed her eyes. Soft and a little gritty she stroked it with her thumbs. Michonne acted on pure instinct, wanting Rick to be close, as close to her as she could manage in the moment.

She made the first move, brushing her lips against his ever so softly. Once, twice, three times she did it, feeling the soft wetness of his pink lips. Then, Rick was on her, his mouth capturing hers in a move that sent sparks up and down Michonne's spine. A tiny moan slipped between her lips and into his mouth as his tongue brushed against hers.

This kiss was different from the one they'd had weeks before after the baseball game. It was more than pure lust or curiosity. Michonne's hands left Rick's beard and wrapped around his neck, his moving to encircle her waist. The slide of their lips was just short of being frantic, full of passion and tenderness. She felt his thumbs make their way underneath her shirt and stroke against the dimples in her lower back, fingering the notches as if they'd been made for him. She bit him in retaliation, earning a deep grown from him as he sucked on her tongue.

Rick felt and tasted delicious and Michonne never wanted to separate herself from him. So she didn't. She languished in Rick Grimes and the sensations he aroused in her aching body. Completely losing herself in the feel of him, there was only one thing that entered her mind.

 _Finally_. She thought. _Finally._


	10. UPDATE

UPDATE:

Hey guys,

First of all, I know it's been forever and I really, genuinely apologize that this isn't an update. It's been months since SACW has been updated and I also know that you guys have been more than patient. Since my last update, so many of you have sent me encouraging messages and PM's and you can't imagine how much those things mean to me. Every single person that reads my work spurs me on and inspires me endlessly.

As for why I've been so absent from fandom these past few months, I'm actually happy to say that it has nothing to do with a lack of inspiration. This story, and ideas for it, are never far from my mind. But, unfortunately, it has been forced to the backburner for other things.

Writing is what makes me happiest and while I haven't been focused on fanfiction recently, I have been diligently working on original stuff. One of the original pieces I've been focusing on is a full length romance novel. The novel is something that I've been working at for a little over two years and I'm happy to say that in January I finally finished it.

Now, comes the really good news. Earlier this week, I officially signed with a publisher to have this book published. It's all very surreal and I can hardly still believe it, but it's happening. I also know that, without the support of my fandom family and my readers, I may have never truly believed that my story was worth telling – let alone that someone would be willing to publish it.

I want everyone here to know that, as thankful as I am for all of you, I don't expect anyone who doesn't expressly want to, to follow my original work as well. That doesn't mean that I wouldn't love to have you guys with me on this journey – because I would! I did, however, want to let you guys know that I am not abandoning SACW, nor will I be pulling it from and AO3. Admittedly, you guys will have to be patient with me. I'll have revisions for my current book, new books to write, and a demanding day job to juggle. But I love this fandom, I love my readers, and I fuckin' love this story. I'm going to make a concentrated effort to update as much as I can and finish this work sometime before in next millennium (that was a joke, don't worry).

In the meantime, I may come back here from time to time to announce updates about my original work (shameless self-promotion sells y'all) as well as post actual updates. Also, be on the lookout for a few oneshots and filled prompts from me over at the We're The Ones Who Write blog on tumblr.

If anyone here wants to know more about my original work, feel free to message me on or tumblr (blackgirlfairy). Tumblr is probably where I'll be revealing the cover/posting blurbs/etc. Additionally, if anyone wants my twitter or Instagram accounts just let me know.

If not, that's totally fine too. I know that you guys will be understanding about my situation, so thank you in advance! As always, I stay open to PM's and messages so don't be shy about sending them.

Love y'all,

BGF.


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